


All Good Things in Time

by pennysparkle



Series: Apartment!verse [1]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Complicated Relationships, Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Past Abuse, Pining, Polyamory, Recovery, Slow Build, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:43:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennysparkle/pseuds/pennysparkle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The ghost is banging around next door again,” Waylon said. He was laying on the couch, upside-down with his feet on the windowsill and his head lifted, scrolling through something on his phone. Still wearing what he was wearing yesterday, which meant that he hadn’t slept, and Miles sighed as he kicked his shoes off.</p><p>“Not the ghost. Some guy’s moving in.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Wait And See 等着瞧吧](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1704866) by [alucard1771](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alucard1771/pseuds/alucard1771)



> You might remember this as apartment!verse, which I've decided to revamp (nothing major, just cleaned up and re-edited the first three parts with about an extra two thousand words in each one now!). I hope you all still enjoy this!

The Mount Massive Apartments were haunted, or at least that's what they'd advertised as in discrete circles—not on any real estate websites, because that would be altogether too quaint for a place like this, but through some odd word of mouth, one occupant to the next. _It's got character_ , one might have said. _Cheap. Nicely renovated. But the pipes leak and the floors creak and nothing is ever where you left it_.

That wasn't even to begin on the fact that it had a sordid enough past, what with being a mental institution in the dark days when it was somehow acceptable for doctors to experiment on the patients they'd been entrusted with—that was creepy enough to begin with, in more ways than one, but it had to be _haunted_ too.

If you asked Miles? He might have muttered something about being suckered into it the way everyone else was, by the low rent and the high ceilings and the dark wood paneling, by the charming exterior that never quite read as hauntingly as it should have. And once you moved in, there wasn't that much point in moving back out, was there? Who wanted to carry all their furniture down six flights of stairs? Not Miles. To begin with, he hadn't been blessed with a 'give a care' attitude; it'd take much worse than this to make him leave, and even then he would have dragged his feet.

The point was that he had never really questioned its status as a hotbed for something not altogether right. It was just how things _were_. The assorted bangings and shoutings from the basement level (which was, as far as he knew, unoccupied) were as constant as having to pay rent, and the occasional early morning where he'd awoken to the sound of someone walking around in his apartment despite having no roommate at that point in time were eerie, but... well, _expected_ , for lack of a better word.

The whole place was kind of otherworldly, itself much larger than it looked on the outside, sprawling on in every direction unnaturally. Miles knew this firsthand, having gotten it into his mind during his viewing to walk the entire building, but he'd only ended up in the darkness of some unused, unrenovated hallway, breathing hard and feeling like he was being watched. It was like the halls themselves were alive and shifting, seeing how amusingly touristy he could be, and choosing to punish him for it.

But that let him know that one thing was true: past the aforementioned 'charming exterior' of Mount Massive was something as eerie as its past. It wasn't anything that would ever interfere with _him_ , though, because he'd come so far from the beginning that whatever history the building had was background noise. Things had changed; he'd picked up a roommate somewhere along the way, resolved never to walk too far from the safety of their apartment, and discovered that Billy from downstairs had lockpick skills, a problem with sleepwalking, and apparently no ability to gauge other people's personal space during that time. The bangings and shoutings drifting up through the pipes? Those were written off as part of the charm, even if it _did_ sometimes get so loud he wanted to shout himself.

By now he knew that for all the stories about the building and its creepiness, the _tenants_ were the ones you really had to watch out for. They weren't bad people, but by and large, they _did_ have a tendency to be on the strange side of things. Some of them could be shady (Miles had his suspicions that at least two of their neighbors were drug dealers), some of them were loud and intimidating enough that he sometimes thought twice about getting in an elevator with them, and far too many of them had habits that a worse man would have complained about, but none of them were particularly dangerous. They were just... _characters_. Miles could have easily filled a book with stories about them.

Over the past few years, they'd gotten good at being firm with their more overbearing neighbors; the only trouble was when new ones showed up, which was the case on this particular gloomy day. As luck (or lack thereof) would have had it, this one in particular was set to become an _immediate_ neighbor, taking up the apartment next door to Miles and Waylon, which had lately been occupied by a guy who was, all things considered, pretty good at minding his own business.

And now they were going to have to go through the whole process of training another neighbor into leaving them alone. It wasn't something that Miles was looking forward to. He was a simple man who enjoyed cold pizza, a steady and healthy supply of sex, and people who kept to themselves, and that last one was _always_ a gamble.

The moving people were in full effect when Miles left to run errands that morning, carting in furniture that looked pristine, yet retro in the authentic manner, which was to say it wasn't an expensive recreation made by designers with a hard-on for 'the good old days.' He'd breezed by, too busy to gawk, and so it wasn't until he got back for the afternoon that he actually _saw_ the guy, or who he _assumed_ to be the guy, seeing as the movers' van was no longer out front.

Whoever he was, he looked much the same as his furniture, like he didn't even belong in this century with his prim waistcoat, sharply-creased dress pants, and shiny shoes. Miles couldn't help staring as he approached his and Waylon's apartment, watching the muscles in his back flex as he kicked the door open and hoisted a large cardboard box through it. He even paused just a moment extra while unlocking their own door, eyes narrowed on the way the fabric strained around the guy's biceps. Then he shook his head and forced himself to leave that spectacle behind, clomping into the living room noisily as if that would expel any split-second thoughts he might have had about climbing his new neighbor. Say what you wanted about Miles' bad decisions; even he knew that wouldn't get them off to a good start.

"The ghost is banging around next door again," Waylon said. He was laying on the couch, upside-down with his feet on the windowsill and his head lifted, scrolling through something on his phone. Still wearing what he was wearing yesterday, which meant that he hadn't slept, and Miles sighed as he kicked his shoes off.

"Not the ghost. Some guy's moving in."

"Hm." Waylon lowered his phone and put on a thoughtful face. "I guess we should take him a housewarming gift."

Waylon was always so incredibly polite, which was surprising when one considered how absent-minded he had a tendency to be. As for Miles, he didn't get what the point was; it wasn't like he really _gave_ a shit about what their neighbors thought of him. As long as they stayed away, he would be fine, and this wasn't an idea that sounded conducive to such a goal.

Still, if there was one thing he could never resist, it was getting in a witty retort. "What, you gonna bake him a cake or something?"

Waylon snorted. Witty retorts never worked that well at getting a rise out of him—he'd just deadpan right back at Miles and ruin all of his wonderful jokes. "Great idea," he said. "Let's set the apartment on fire again."

"Yeah, then you can get Blaire even further up your ass," Miles muttered on his way into the kitchen. He dropped the pack of beer he'd been lugging around onto the counter, then busied himself with putting away the few groceries he'd picked up at the store. All of it was microwavable in an effort to convince Waylon to actually _eat_ , because it wouldn't take him _that_ much time away from coding to make it. This was, needless to say, a long-standing argument in their household.

When he turned around, Waylon was scowling at him, and Miles knew that he was probably just pissed off because it was true. Jeremy Blaire did indeed seem to have a particular fondness for being lodged so far up Waylon's ass that he could have treated him like a puppet, but it was a sore spot for Waylon, as it had every right to be. Miles figured he could have this one pass for the night, and dropped it—but not before Waylon coaxed him into a promise to buy a nice bottle of wine from one of those boutique places in town the next day.

So, with the accursed, overpriced bottle of wine in hand, they walked the ten feet separating their apartment door from the new guy's the following evening. This was _after_ Miles had made sure that Waylon took a shower and put on clean clothes; he had a tendency to be a little too stuck in his own head to be trusted with these things all the time. As a part of the previous evening's agreement, it was also his job to knock on the door, and Miles felt Waylon shuffle subtly behind him, as if taking cover.

There was a rustle behind the door before it swung open. The guy (and Miles made a note that he _had_ been correct) was dressed just like he was the other evening—a different ensemble, though, pale green waistcoat over a button-up and brown trousers—but it was still so entirely out of place. Miles found it striking, the first thing his eyes had been drawn to twice in a row now, and he imagined the ways in which he would describe this man if he were writing an article about him. _Man out of time. Fifties chic. Classically handsome. Fills up a room with his shoulders alone_.

"Yes?" he asked. He had a nice voice, which was good. Miles liked nice voices, and Waylon did too—he probably went a little wilder for them than even Miles did.

"We're your neighbors," Miles grunted. Just because he'd been given the task of making introductions didn't mean he was going to act _pleasant_. He hooked a thumb in the direction of their apartment door, dark navy with a long scar in it from when he was moving in. Turned out couches weren't so easy to get through doorways—again, the largest point of contention against him ever moving out. "Over there."

"Oh, hello. Nice to meet you," their new neighbor said. He reached out a hand, looking so sincere that Miles actually shocked himself into taking it. "I'm Eddie." There was a soft pause as his gaze drifted from Miles to Waylon, and something in his eyes changed, narrowing at the sight of him. "Gluskin."

"Miles Upshur," Miles returned, watching as Waylon nervously put his own hand out to be engulfed in Eddie's. For someone who rarely went out, there was a greater hunger in him to know people than there was in Miles. He seemed to anticipate the touch, and his nerves vanished to a smile when Eddie shook it.

"Waylon Park," he said. Every inch of him was present in this moment, as opposed to Miles, who slumped a little against the wall, ready for it to be over.

Eddie smiled back at him, bright and pleased. He had a bit of an intense face, and the smile just made it more so, but in a way that wasn't really unpleasant—rather, all his features seemed to strain when he smiled. It was an effort, maybe. The result was pleasing to look at, if not a little unnatural, as if he wasn't used to contorting his face into such a happy expression.

"It's nice to meet the both of you," he said. Too damned polite, just like Waylon. They'd get along well, and Miles had a sudden, horribly visceral image of being surrounded by these two polite fools for the rest of his stay at Mount Massive. He physically shuddered, because that, more than anything else—more than hauntings or shady neighbors—was the one thing he could imagine making him leave. It was an affront to both his cool, slick exterior which was set to rebuff everyone, and to his laziness.

"Yep," he said, ready to get this horrifying show of pleasantry to its conclusion. He thrust out the wine bottle that had been resting under his other arm, more like a blunt instrument than a gift. "This is for you."

Eddie took it, holding it carefully. "Oh. That's too kind of you," he said. He looked at it like he wasn't sure what to do with it, and only became more confused when his gaze lifted back up to them. "Would you like to come in for a glass?"

Miles was about to swiftly decline, already annoyed enough that he'd been forced to come over _and_ that their neighbor wasn't shaping up to be someone they could just ignore, but Waylon surprisingly spoke up before he could. In a way, he'd been expecting it; for all Waylon enjoyed meeting new people, he wasn't very good at beginning or maintaining friendships. It seemed as though, to be close with him, you had to move in silent and quick, so that before he could realize it, the friendship was already cemented.

"Sorry. We've already got plans." For Waylon, plans meant coding and perhaps, if he was feeling particularly kindly toward himself, eating or sleeping. Miles knew better than to bet on it, though.

The look on Eddie's face was either pained or angry; Miles didn't really know him well enough to tell, and he had no intentions of sticking around long enough to find out. "Ah," he said. "Alright. Perhaps another time...? I don't want to be a bother."

"He's weird around new people," Miles piped up in a surprising moment of guilt, and Waylon dug his fist into Miles' back, a promise of retribution for when they were alone again. "Don't take it personally. Or _do_ take it personally. I guess it's not my decision to make."

Eddie smiled at them uneasily. "Right. Well, I'll get back to unpacking," he said. "Let me know if there's ever anything I can do for you two. I can assure you, it won't be a problem."

Miles smirked, edging back and bumping into Waylon. Maybe he didn't intend it—in fact, Miles was almost one hundred percent sure now that he _didn't_ —but his manner of speech left a lot of room for fantasy. "We sure will."

They barely even heard the door shutting behind them before Miles was turning, glancing Waylon up and down as if to gauge his reaction. Fidgety hands. Breathing a little heavier than normal. Eyes averted. It was either nervousness or attraction—classic signs that were always easily misinterpreted, because Miles wasn't some kind of behavioral psychologist, after all. He was just a journalist with a keen eye.

"He seems nice," he said.

"Yeah," Waylon muttered, shoulders slumped sulkily. "If you like guys who look like they wanna eat you for dinner."

"As a matter of fact, that's exactly my type," said Miles, more teasing than truthful. He'd never miss a chance to rile Waylon up. "But if you're feeling left out and want one for yourself, there's always Frank from upstairs."

"No!"

Miles' smirk stretched wider, his eyes squinted in cruel pleasure, and he nudged Waylon back toward their door. "Oh, so you want Mr. Eddie Gluskin for yourself, then?"

" _No_ , Miles!"

"He's not as bad as Frank, at least."

"Yeah, right. At least Frank's the kind of guy you'd have a chance against in a fight. That guy looks like he could pick up both of us and not even bat an eye..." The thought caused him to shudder, for his shoulders to hunch a little more, forcing his weight toward the ground as if that would keep this nightmare fantasy of Eddie from sweeping him up.

"I don't think he wants to _fight_ you," Miles said as they filed into their own apartment. "But I'm sure he'd _love_ to pick you up."

"Shut up," Waylon grumbled in embarrassment, and Miles leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

It didn't stop him from huffing some more, so Miles kissed his cheek, the tip of his nose, his chin, and finally, his lips. "I'll protect you, you big baby," he said, long-suffering.

"Sure you will." Waylon rolled his eyes, and Miles was only a little bit affronted that Waylon didn't take him seriously. "You get off on watching people squirm."

Well, that was a pleasant change of subject, at least. Miles grinned, sharp and predatory. "That I do."

Waylon grunted and pulled away from him, annoyance disguised as disinterest. "Why don't you call for pizza," he suggested breezily. "I'm taking a shower."

"Really? Without me?" Miles was absolutely _devastated_ , really.

"Yes. Someone has to answer the door when the pizza gets here."

"So I'm just a glorified door man, is _that_ what you're saying?"

Waylon scoffed, knowing better than to engage Miles in the long run, and then the bathroom door closed between them, leaving Miles pouting in the hallway. He sighed and turned away, making for the phone and the ragged, sauce-stained pizza menu that hung on the refrigerator. A large pepperoni and a side of wings—not the healthiest dinner, but at least it meant Waylon would be eating tonight. Miles made the call and plopped down on the couch to wait.

It wasn't until he'd been sitting there for a few minutes, water running in the bathroom and puffs of heat creeping out under the door, that Miles realized Waylon had only just showered a few hours ago. And he didn't mean to pry, but Waylon wasn't exactly _quiet_ when he was jerking off.

Nervousness or attraction. Maybe the right answer, in the end, had been both. Miles cursed himself; he really should have been more suspicious from the start—after all, it was never a good day when someone new came to Mount Massive, and it was both naive and overly optimistic to have believed that they were going to manage to greet their neighbor and then never see him again. Now he was stuck with the creeping suspicion that it was all about to get a little more complicated than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://bunansa.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

It took Waylon a little over three days after that first encounter to realize that he had met Eddie Gluskin before, and another two to recall just _where_ he knew him from. There was no question as to why he'd hidden it away from himself; the memory it was wrapped up in was bittersweet, something he disliked dwelling on too often. Better left alone, as the saying went—although sometimes, when Miles got in a bad mood, he'd bring it up just to be spiteful, to try and start a fight, because he was self-destructive like that.

Waylon himself did an alright job forgetting about it most days; in fact, his broken engagement with Lisa had been off his mind for months when the realization hit him like a bag of bricks, and the memory cracked open at his feet. He recoiled momentarily, and then the flood came.

She'd been so excited about the wedding, taken to the task of planning like there was nothing she'd rather do, asking for his opinions because ' _I don't care' isn't a good enough excuse to get out of planning your own wedding, Waylon_. Even those words were perfectly preserved, her voice equal parts amused and exasperated in his mind. He could picture her at the dining room table of their tiny, one bedroom home, too, with binders and magazines spread out in front of her, covering the entire surface so that he didn't have a place to put his laptop down.

And like a good fiancé, he'd submitted to being dragged along with her to all kinds of places—caterers, flower shops, bridal shops; the list could go on forever. But it was the bridal shops that always stood out the most in his mind—bridal shops with rows of silken, pristine dresses and delicate veils with tiny jewels reflecting in them, and price tags so dizzying Waylon actually had to sit down and go through breathing exercises on more than one occasion. If he'd known how expensive they'd end up being, he might have gone a little cheaper on the engagement ring.

There had been _far_ too many bridal shops, a never-ending chain of them that was better left forgotten in the end, but the one she ended up loving the most was a small, locally-owned place in town. He recalled so many afternoons spent watching her touch the gowns there, carefully feeling the slip of satin and lace between her fingers as she reverently told Waylon how they were all made by hand. So many afternoons in which she'd tried on dress after dress, only to be disappointed by the fact that not a single one of them was right, even though she found them so beautiful. In hindsight, it kind of seemed like an omen.

Still, the little old lady that ran the shop had been accommodating and understanding, likely through years and years of dealing with brides-to-be ( _est. 1952_ , read the sign in the window, and the woman seemed old enough to have been around that long), and had brought up the possibility of something made just for her by their very own in-house designer.

That had been the moment Eddie Gluskin entered Waylon's life. He was just as tall and broad in Waylon's memory, so much so that he looked terrifyingly out of place amongst the delicate dresses, though he was done up in an equally immaculate manner. Waylon had watched him curiously at first because he could, because the focus was never on him, and everything else about these outings was a little bit boring. Eddie, for his part, was purely attentive to Lisa, bottom lip pinched between his teeth as he glanced between her and his sketchbook, working out design after design. And Lisa never seemed to mind standing there for hours under his scrutiny while Waylon drifted off into naps on one of the plush couches in the store.

Suddenly he had reason to remember Eddie and Lisa hunched over that sketchbook as he drowsed, quietly talking through the merits of each design; he remembered Eddie taking her measurements once she'd made her decision, hands delicate and skittish on her body but swift with the measuring tape; he remembered going to fittings with her and seeing Eddie standing at her back while she examined herself in the mirror, smiling so proudly at his half-finished work.

And he even remembered the part he didn't _want_ to remember, the knowledge that underneath the bustle of planning a wedding, there was nothing close to excitement or even contentment. He remembered the complaints they had against each other, things too large to be ignored and unable to be fixed; the fighting, the yelling; and still, the knowledge that he loved her, and that she loved him.

It had been hard on both of them to come to the realization that, though you could love someone so much, it didn't mean that you were meant to be together, and that love alone couldn't force something to work. All things came to an end, eventually—some were just harder to let go of than others.

He'd stood beside her as she'd told Eddie that the wedding was off, that they wanted to pay him for his work still, unfinished though it was. Eddie's face had been stricken, then angry as he refused payment, and resigned as he walked them out of the shop.

At 4:19AM on a Thursday, Waylon realized he had been spacing out over his laptop and that his face hurt from frowning at memories that did him no good to recall. The best and seemingly only course of action when this happened was to sleep it off, and though he was in the middle of a project, he shut his laptop down, crawled off the couch, and crossed to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

In front of the mirror, he observed himself: tired-eyed, hair a mess, wearing the same shirt from yesterday. That was the thing about memories, really—Lisa was so beautiful in his, just like Eddie was striking and stark and in a tired, dreamless way, rather handsome, but Waylon couldn't recall himself ever looking like anything but this. He wondered if Lisa could still imagine who she'd fallen in love with underneath the shut-in chic look he'd had going for the past few years. But in the end, those thoughts were just another way to torture himself, and he'd kind of gotten tired of that, so he turned away from the mirror.

When he was done cleaning up, he padded silently down the hallway and into his bedroom. Miles had been grumpy earlier, some complaint about one of the neighbors that Waylon only halfway listened to, and he was a deep sleeper but he was _horrible_ about being woken up before he decided he wanted to, so it was Waylon's own bed tonight. Not that it was a problem, though; they weren't actually _dating_ in the traditional sense of the word, and only slept in the same bed a quarter of the time, which barely amounted to anything when combined with Waylon's ever-morphing sleep schedule. Between them, things tended to be complicated when viewed from an outsider's perspective, but Waylon overthought enough in his life without questioning the one thing that just _worked_.

* * *

As one could have guessed from looking at the bags under his eyes, sleep was a rare, strange concept to Waylon; he didn't really make a point of doing it every single day, because it got in the way of his often single-minded focus—so when he did, it was almost always for upwards of sixteen hours. Thus, it wasn't until late the next evening that he dragged himself out of bed, yawning, back sore from a mattress that wasn't the most comfortable thing he'd ever owned, and overheated from sleeping under too many blankets. He only made it worse in the shower, standing half-awake under the spray, water turned up hot enough that his skin turned pink and the air in the bathroom became hard to breathe through the steam.

After, he headed straight to the refrigerator for at least a slice of leftover pizza, hoping to quell the rumble of his stomach before he got too invested in work, but there was only beer and microwave dinners. He frowned. The soft sound of Miles typing at his laptop couldn't be heard, nor was he napping on the sofa, which meant that at this hour, he was probably out scrounging for stories to cover and wouldn't be coming home with food any time soon. Resigned, Waylon booted up his laptop, ordered pizza from the usual place for the second night in a row, and settled in to work on his current project.

Forty-five minutes passed in what seemed like the blink of an eye, Waylon caught up in his trance-like state of coding, and so it took him a while to register the knocking on the front door. It wasn't insistent, but it was firm enough to imply that the person who was knocking had been there for a little while, and he stood on wobbly feet, somewhat dazed, then snagged his wallet and padded toward the door.

He found himself expecting an annoyed pizza guy, but what got instead was Eddie, pizza box in hand and an apologetic look on his face.

"I'm awfully sorry," he began, just as sincere as his expression. "It seemed like you were too busy to answer the door, so I took care of it."

"Oh." Waylon shuffled in the doorway self-consciously as he flipped his wallet open. He was wearing some ratty t-shirt from a charity run and a pair of lounge pants that were a couple sizes too big, and though this was usually a detail that barely registered to him, he felt exposed and a little horrified with himself in this moment. _Play it cool_ , a voice that sounded suspiciously like Miles said in his head. _Don't be a doofus_. "Okay. What do I owe you?"

Eddie narrowed his eyes, and it took Waylon a few moments to realize that he was concerned rather than annoyed. His features weren't the most conducive to delivering emotion—it was almost as though they were _too_ dramatic to do so. "It was already paid for," he said, but not in a _duh, you fool_ kind of way.

"Right," said Waylon, embarrassed as he closed his wallet again. But before he could put it back on the table beside the door, Eddie's hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, the touch lingering long enough that embarrassment faded to unease. Even Miles didn't really grab him like that, and this was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger.

"You're married?" Eddie asked curiously, when the moment stretched so long that Waylon had begun calculating how good his chances were of getting his phone and calling the police with Eddie still holding onto him. He startled, his eyes following that intense line of sight to the plain band around his ring finger. "To _Miles_?"

" _Jesus_ , no!" It was an awkward topic, but nowhere near as awkward as the implication that he'd be married to _Miles_ , of all people. It was kind of nosy too, wasn't it? He tried to pull his hand back, but Eddie's grip was strong and unrelenting, setting him on edge. And it wasn't as though he wanted to talk about it, but maybe if Eddie _realized_ what a sore spot it was, he might drop it. "I was engaged. A long time ago. Hard habit to break."

"Ah..." Eddie's hand dropped away, though the firmness and warmth of his grip lingered for moments after, like an imprint in those foam mattresses that always showed up on late-night infomercial marathons. Waylon didn't know whether or not he liked it. Eddie cleared his throat. "Forgive me. It wasn't my place to pry."

"No big deal." And that felt like the end of the conversation, especially since the pizza was now in Waylon's hands and everything was taken care off, but still Eddie lingered. Waylon's brows rose expectantly. "... Is there something else?"

"Is Miles your sweetheart?" Eddie blurted out all in a rush.

"... No," said Waylon, as if that idea was even more absurd than being _married_ to Miles. Of course he and Miles liked each other, maybe even to the point of love, but they weren't _in_ love; Miles just wasn't the falling in love type, and at this point in his life, Waylon was satisfied—almost _grateful—_ for that fact.

"I see. Well then, good night." Eddie gave him a wan shadow of a smile and turned around, broad shoulders seeming to rise just a little more as if that simple denial from Waylon had lifted his spirits.

"Thanks for the pizza," Waylon called out, and watched as Eddie nearly tripped over himself in his haste to turn around and give him the biggest, most pleased grin he could muster.

"Of course," he replied. "My pleasure." In his excitement, he knocked into the doorway of his own apartment, and Waylon chuckled softly to himself as he lifted his hand in a wave, then ducked back inside. At least he didn't leave that exchange feeling like the only one who'd embarrassed himself.

An hour passed by filled with Waylon munching pizza, gulping beer, and snipping away at code on his laptop screen, and by the time the door opened and Miles strolled in, he had decimated nearly everything. Belatedly, he realized he should have at least saved some pizza, but Miles had a styrofoam takeout container in one hand anyway, so he didn't feel all that bad.

"Hello," he said, tapping his right ring finger absently against the keyboard as he watched Miles lock the door behind him. His hair was damp, messy like he'd been pushing it around as he always did. If Waylon actually bothered to tune in, he could hear rain outside, and the distant rumble of thunder—excuse enough for Miles' rather haggard state.

"Hi," Miles replied. He leaned down and dropped a casual, almost condescending kiss on Waylon's head as he shrugged out of his jacket, very nearly punching him in the side of the head as he did so, but he got it off without incident and draped it over one of the kitchen chairs before grabbing a glass from one of the cabinets. "I noticed a distinct lack of computer noises from your room this morning. Did you actually... _gasp_... sleep?"

He said 'gasp' aloud, which was nerdy and entirely expected of Miles, because it made Waylon laugh before he said anything. "Yep. Didn't feel good."

"Oh." Miles dumped a handful of ice into the cup, then filled it with water from the tap and leaned back into the counter, making a thoughtful face. "Better now?"

"I think so."

"That's good." His eyes scanned the kitchen, then settled upon the pizza box. "I'm surprised you actually managed to hear the doorbell to get that. Usually you don't."

"I didn't," Waylon said, embarrassment heating his face not at the admission of his failings, but at what came after. "Eddie did."

"Oh, _Eddie_ did," said Miles, immediately taking on a smug tone. " _Eddie_ brought your pizza, huh? He did? Was there a little hole cut in the bottom for his dick?"

Waylon rolled his eyes. "Jesus, what is _wrong_ with you?"

"Or would it be a big hole? I bet he's packing something huge."

" _Christ_ , Miles!"

"I'm just saying, it's not outside the realm of possibility. He's got a crush on you."

"No he doesn't," Waylon muttered dismissively, turning back to his laptop. Miles wasn't worth acknowledging in moments like this; it could really only go a couple different ways, and few of them were good.

"He does too. You're just oblivious."

"Whatever. Go to your room—stop bothering me."

"If you wanna go on a date with him, I'd try not to mind," said Miles, coming around the table to wrap his arms over Waylon's shoulders. He leaned down, nuzzling obnoxiously against the side of his neck, but the soft scratch of five o'clock shadow made Waylon shiver all the same.

"Yeah, right. You'd call begging me to come home and fuck you."

"That only happened _once_..." Miles said, mock-offended. "And anyway, maybe I'd be begging for _him_ to come home and fuck me."

"I'm not even—god, I'm not _interested_. I am perfectly satisfied with my life right now, thanks." Waylon stared hard at his screen, wishing that Miles would back off. He knew the only reason for this was that Miles was too fond of pushing people's buttons, but it got to be too much for even Waylon to tolerate at times, and he liked to think he had a fairly mellow personality.

"But you could be _more_ satisfied."

"Not interested."

"You really don't wanna give him a ride?"

" _No_."

Miles nipped lightly at Waylon's neck, hands sliding down to palm against his chest. "Would you like to give _me_ a ride?"

"I'm in the middle of working right now," Waylon said tersely, and while it was technically true, he hadn't touched a single line of code since Miles got home. Besides, as these past few minutes had reminded him, Miles had a habit of taking things too far just for his own amusement—he probably wasn't _actually_ interested in having sex right now. He just wanted to be a brat.

"You don't have to stop working. You could just... sit on my lap."

 _Oh_. He _was_ serious. And it wasn't that Waylon wasn't interested (far be it from him to turn up an opportunity like this), but it was all a little strange. He had to be in some sort of a mood.

"Did somebody say something mean to you today?" Waylon enquired. "Are you feeling emasculated? I mean, geez, when was the last time you actually wanted to be the penetrator instead of the penetratee?" He couldn't help laughing a little at his own choice of wording.

"What? I haven't been emasculated. And it hasn't been _that_ long."

"Then why?"

"Can't a guy just want to fuck his roommate in the ass every now and then without it being so strange?"

"When that guy is _you_? No."

"I just want to," Miles said, dragging his teeth against the sensitive little hollow behind Waylon's ear, because he knew that always distracted him, and now it was obvious that he was trying to avoid giving an actual answer.

"Are you... are you _jealous_?" asked Waylon, incredulous. Jealousy and Miles were so far removed from each other as to be strangers; this was entirely new, unbroken ground. He almost couldn't believe the words as they spilled from his mouth.

" _What_? Why would I be jealous? What reason would I have for that? You know what, I'm gonna take a shower while you think about your actions." He scoffed, as if the absurd way he said this was going to make Waylon really believe him, and he started to push away, but Waylon grabbed his hand to stop him.

"Go get the stuff," he said, long-suffering. It was better than having Miles pout around the apartment for the rest of the evening.

Miles made a pleased noise before disappearing into the hallway, and Waylon took a few moments to get up and tidy everything away before migrating to the couch with his laptop. He had it set up on the stray TV tray by the time Miles came back, stripped down to his boxer briefs and toting the necessary supplies.

"Ready, good sir?" he asked pleasantly, in a rather gentlemanly accent.

Waylon rolled his eyes and gestured to the couch. "Go on. And don't call me sir."

Miles plopped down and patted his thighs, upon which Waylon exasperatedly took a seat. It required a little adjusting but eventually they were resting comfortably against each other (or at least as comfortably as they could when Miles already had a hard-on) and Waylon pulled the TV tray forward, fingers immediately highlighting a line of code that was no longer needed.

"... Y'know, I wasn't serious when I said you didn't have to stop working," Miles said, rubbing his hands over Waylon's thighs.

"Too bad. If you want rent money from me this month, you're going to have to deal with it, because I'm behind."

Miles sighed. "You're so mean to me. Eddie wouldn't like you half as much if he knew how mean you are."

"Please shut up."

For once, thankfully, Miles obeyed. He wrapped an arm around Waylon's waist, hooking fingers into his sleep pants and underwear, then shoved them down around his thighs. The grasp of his hand followed on Waylon's cock, warm and slick with a little dollop of lube.

Over the year and a half's time since they had started doing this, Miles had perfected the way he touched Waylon; his pace was slow, more teasing than satisfying, just the way Waylon liked it at first. As he got harder, so did Miles' movements, and soon Waylon was making quiet noises and grinding down on Miles' trapped cock, a little more invested in the mood than he'd been earlier. He should have known; this was the way Miles' plans always went—making him think he'd hate it, and then tricking him into wanting it more than even Miles did.

"See?" Miles asked, his thumb rubbing insistently under the head of Waylon's cock. "You've missed this as much as I have."

"You gave me a handjob three days ago. I wasn't exactly hurting for one," said Waylon, but his eyes were starting to flutter a little, and he could feel his body heating with arousal.

"Such _attitude_ tonight," Miles sighed. He was slicking his fingers up, and Waylon leaned back against his chest in preparation, propping his legs open so that Miles could reach down between them and press one in.

This was more distant territory for them. Waylon had been shy about letting Miles do it at first, and at any rate, he hadn't exactly asked to very often. Sometimes it seemed like he had no idea what Waylon wanted him to do, and he was too stubborn to ask, which was why Waylon almost always took care of preparation; it was just easier on the both of them. At the very least, he knew better by now than to tease like with the handjobs; he just got to work opening Waylon up, one cursory finger becoming two, and of course Waylon moaned and sighed through it because he'd always been the kind of person who was too sensitive. It felt like he was going to go out of his mind when Miles started rubbing his fingers in incessant little circles inside of him, making his breath hitch in his chest, but sometimes that felt like a good thing.

"Alright?"

"Mn, keep going," Waylon instructed.

"Greedy." But Miles obeyed, firmly pressing into the spot that had Waylon tensing up until he gasped, shuddering, thighs falling open a little more. "Good now?"

"Yeah, fine, fine."

Miles' fingers pressed deeper one last time before withdrawing, and Waylon scooted forward again, clambering up onto his knees. Behind him there was the sharp sound of a condom packet ripping open, then Miles slicking himself up. For a moment, everything was perfectly still, and then a hand wrapped around his hip and guided him back onto Miles' cock.

Waylon sank himself down in controlled measures, groaning at the feeling of being stretched. Since they started doing specifically this, he'd figured out that he was pretty good at riding, and he wasn't sure why; he wasn't the strongest guy, didn't have a particularly innate sense of rhythm, and tended to be self-conscious, but for some reason when he was in Miles' lap, everything just _clicked_ , and then he was rolling his hips down in smooth, fluid motions without even having to think about it.

"Just like that," Miles encouraged.

"I've _got_ it, Miles. Geez." He never shut up—wouldn't moan or sigh or anything, but let him open his mouth and he wouldn't stop talking. Waylon spared a thought to gagging him in the future, but for now he took a few moments to get himself going in Miles' lap, steadily beginning to grind back on his cock in long, steady motions. It was so right that Miles dug fingertips into his hipbones, which was almost always a good sign—and then Waylon leaned forward again, tapping out a line of code that had been sitting in his head for a couple minutes.

"Wow. You're really gonna do this," Miles said, indignantly shoving his hips up so that Waylon bounced in his lap.

"Mhm."

"I'm so glad my cock is just a convenient seat for you while you focus on more _important_ matters," he huffed, leaning forward to rest his chin on Waylon's shoulder blade, arms wrapping around his middle before a hand slipped down to start jerking him off again.

"Hey, you're the one who wanted sex so bad," Waylon said disinterestedly, highlighting a now-moot line of code, deleting it, then scrolling down.

"Oh well. At least you're good at multi-tasking."

"Mhm."

For a few moments, Miles was blessedly quiet, which was good _and_ bad for the exact same reason: it was distracting. At least if he were talking, Waylon could ignore the way it was actually kind of uncomfortable to be leaning forward as he worked. However, admitting defeat to Miles was _never_ a good idea, so he just shifted his numbing legs and dealt with it, altering the movement of his hips to sit more deeply on Miles' cock, which meant he doesn't lift as far up; it was less work but ultimately not a worse feeling.

"C'mon, give me some insight. What's going on in your head right now?" Miles asked obnoxiously, a bottle finally bursting its cork after such pointed silence.

"... Good things?"

"Tell me my dick is big," he wheedled on.

" _Ew_."

Miles made a noise of feigned outrage and bucked his hips up into Waylon, who slapped the keyboard in his attempt to keep balance. There was a nonsense string of letters in place of whatever it was he'd intended to put before, and he let out an annoyed moan as he backspaced. "You're just _dying_ for attention tonight, aren't you?"

"I'm glad you finally noticed."

Waylon sighed and shut the laptop. Behind him, Miles made a sound of victory, but then he probably had to clamp down on his lip because Waylon was lifting himself up and forcing himself back down on his cock, working himself for everything he was worth. _This_ was his retribution; in the end, he'd have Miles wishing he'd never made Waylon give his full attention, but for now his hand between his legs jerked harder, willing Waylon to keep going.

And he did, riding Miles hard and fast like he was proving a point, until his toes curled and his stomach tensed up and strands of come splashed onto the lid of his closed laptop. He could hear himself moaning, frantic and wild as Miles' arms went too tight around his waist, jerking up into him and sucking hard at the back of his neck when he came in complete, euphoric silence.

They stayed together like that for a few minutes. Miles was far from the cuddliest person alive, but he really didn't have a choice in it when Waylon was on top of him. But even he got tired from the position and rolled off eventually, too sore and sweaty to be close for any longer. He needed another shower, but felt so suddenly drained that he worried he'd fall asleep at the bottom of the tub, and in the end, he drifted off right there on the couch, Miles only inches away.

* * *

There was always one weekend a month during which, in order to marathon horror movies, Waylon and Miles put aside job-related concerns, non-existent social lives, and often, sleeping and showering. It was one of Waylon's favorite things, not because he enjoyed being scared or avoiding work, but because with fright as his excuse, Miles became much more receptive to casual affectionate touches. _Bonding time_ , one might have called it. Even if it came under some rather odd circumstances.

They'd been planning on it since the previous weekend, and got into it on a Friday night after Miles had stopped to get beer at the gas station a mile or so away, then at the Chinese place to pick up their takeout. The movies themselves were often trying things—on one end of the spectrum, Waylon might have felt embarrassed even to _watch_ them, and on the other, he ended up terrified, glancing around the room for creepy crawlies. They were always a gamble, especially when method of choosing basically came down to a blind grab box of the horror section; not the best, but it kept them on their toes.

They started slow, more focused on scarfing down dinner and alcohol than in the movie itself. This first one went almost entirely ignored, which was fine, because by the mid-point of Saturday they'd slogged their way through approximately five horrendously shitty movies and two that were surprisingly decent, but unfortunately watched while the sun was up and thus not as terrifying as they could have been.

Miles had a tendency to keep running commentary throughout each film, a lull that Waylon had come to be comforted by though he very rarely actually listened to it except to tune in on whatever odd twist of phrase he'd chosen that made Waylon lose his composure with laughter instead of fright. It used to be somehow amazing to him that Miles could go as long as he did, and at that point in time, he hung on to every word. But after a while it became apparent that he had a neverending supply of sarcastic comments that he refused to let go of even in the middle of traumatic situations.

When he was drunk, which was just about the only thing they were good at on marathon weekends, it got even worse—tangents that began and ended without a point, or that didn't end at _all_ because Miles could carry a statement to its logical conclusion, and then keep trucking past the point of no return. This was the most frequent commentary, because they'd become extremely well-practiced at keeping up hours worth of a buzz, relenting for a while (perhaps to take a short nap), supplicating themselves with leftovers and water, and then continuing on again.

At this point, they were far into the drinking portion of the cycle, the sun down again and the two of them pleasantly tipsy and huddled at far ends of the couch. A tense, claustrophobic movie about violent entities was playing out on the TV screen that had Waylon clutching his can of beer like a weapon, and he should've really been expecting that something would terrify him (in this case, usually Miles, who was an asshole that thought things like that were funny), but when the knock on the door came, he still dropped the can in his fright, watching despairingly as beer soaked him from stomach to knee.

"Can you get that?" Miles asked, eying him in amusement. He knew the answer to his own question—he was just, as previously mentioned, an _asshole_.

"Miles... _really_?"

"My leg is asleep, man!" Miles protested, without even the decency to look as though he was in any kind of discomfort.

"Miles."

"You're the only one that can make it to the door before they go away!" moaned Miles, as if he were a damsel in distress. "Help me, Obi-Way Kenobi! You're my only hope!"

Waylon grunted. He was going to be dramatic about this until Waylon gave in, and usually, he'd do so without much fuss. But Miles wasn't the one with beer soaking his entire crotch, was he? "There is _no_ way I'm getting that. _You_ get it."

Miles eyed him dirtily, and then, in a move of such utter childishness that it astonished even Waylon, he lay down, tucked his face under a pillow, and cheerily said, "Goodnight."

Waylon gaped drunkenly at him for several seconds, because that was the only thing he _could_ do. It wasn't that he was so shocked at this kind of behavior, but it still managed to be a little stunning—Miles, after all, had a habit of one-upping himself in terms of just how much he could get away with when it came to Waylon. But there was another knock on the door, heavy and measured, and Waylon gave in to the inevitability of getting up, legs wobbly from too much beer and hands fluttering wildly as he tried to figure out whether or not he had enough time to change.

"Just take it off if it bothers you so much," Miles said, voice muffled by the pillow.

"That'd be indecent!"

"You don't have to open the door all the way. Just see what they want."

Waylon grumbled, but stripped out of his shirt and sleep pants with some effort, sparing a few moments of thanks for the fact that the beer hadn't seeped into the fabric of his boxer briefs, then hurried over to open the door a few inches. It was dark in the hallway, which meant Father Martin or Billy or _someone_ had probably been messing with the fuses again, and with the only light in the apartment itself being the television, he couldn't see all that far. Waylon drew a jerky breath in, and that was when a hand shot out and landed on his bare chest.

The shriek he let out was undignified to say the least, as was the way he swung the door wide open and bolted out, knocking into a solid body on the way. He ran single-mindedly, too thoughtless from beer and freaked out by the movie they'd been watching to consider that it wasn't exactly the best course of action. Besides, if it really _was_ a murderer or a violent ghost, maybe they'd be too distracted with Miles to follow him. Of all the people he knew, Miles was the person most likely to talk himself out of getting murdered—either that, or they'd get so sick of listening to him talk that they'd kill him even sooner.

But that wasn't the point. The point was _running_. He took the stairs down two at a time, which was really where he made his biggest mistake, and he almost expected it when he tripped down the last several steps and landed hard on one foot, then crumpled to the ground.

There was silence around Waylon as he lay there, and he groaned, annoyed with himself as his ankle began first to flash with pain, and then radiate with it. He doubted he'd be able to walk back upstairs, and anyway, he was almost too humiliated to do so. Past the fear/drunk firings of his brain, he realized now that the chances of a serial killer being at their door was slim to none, and thus it had probably just been one of their neighbors. Miles would eventually come out when he didn't return, and until then, Waylon would just lay here quietly in his embarrassment, in the pitch dark with no clothes on, completely vulnerable.

"I am stupid," he announced in a slur to the empty hallway.

"Tell me you're alright!" came Eddie's voice from above. "I'd hate to think..." There he trailed off, or else spoke so quietly that Waylon couldn't hear him from his position on the floor, but then he was creaking his way down the stairs in the darkness and Waylon could feel, somehow, his heavy presence hovering around.

"What have you done to yourself?" he asked despairingly.

"It's just a twisted ankle or something," Waylon said, wincing as he pushed himself up to sit. "No big deal." Except that it was, and Waylon once again felt a wash of embarrassment and annoyance at himself for overreacting.

"Let me help you," said Eddie.

Waylon prepared for a guiding arm around his shoulder, but instead Eddie bent down and scooped him up as if he were a bride about to be carried over the threshold. Of course he was strong enough to do this, Waylon thought begrudgingly. He didn't even seem to strain as he began the walk back upstairs.

"You really don't have to do this," Waylon muttered, because he found the embarrassment worse than the way his injured ankle bounced slightly with every step Eddie took.

"It was my fault, wasn't it? I scared you." Eddie said this firmly, no room for Waylon to argue. His hands were warm on Waylon's bare skin, large and strong and slightly calloused, and he cradled him close to his chest, close enough that Waylon thought he could hear a heartbeat inside. Or perhaps it was his own—after all, being close enough to smell the clean, woodsy scent of soap on Eddie's skin probably wasn't doing much to help him keep his calm.

When they reached the still-open door to the apartment, Eddie excused himself and stepped inside, careful not to knock any part of Waylon against the door frame. The lights were on and the movie had been paused, and Waylon noted with a further sense of embarrassment that empty beer cans and takeout containers littered every surface like a blast radius around the TV. Their weekend of being couch potatoes was entirely obvious, laid out for Eddie to see.

As for Miles, he remained on the couch, eyeing them with a smirk creeping up his face. "Wow. You two sure got comfy-cozy fast."

"That's... an awfully vulgar implication," Eddie said. He was standing completely still, eyes impassive on Miles as he clutched Waylon in his arms. It was more than a little horrifying to Waylon; he was a _grown adult_ , and anyway, it wasn't as though his injury was really bad enough to warrant this.

"Uh. Are you going to put me down?" he asked, breaking this impromptu staring contest between Eddie and Miles, because otherwise it was surely going to go on _far_ too long.

"Oh. I apologize, darl— darn—," Eddie stuttered, and Waylon's brows squinted down in confusion. This wasn't such a difficult thing to manage. In fact, Waylon could have whipped up a manual for him in a matter of seconds. Step one, put Waylon down. Step two, back away. And you're done! Excellent work!

Eventually though, Eddie ended on an embarrassed, "Sorry." He took a few long strides to the couch to deposit Waylon beside Miles and crouched down in front of him, one hand coming up again to touch Waylon, cradling his calf as he examined the nasty bruise that was already blooming across his ankle and the top of his foot. It was almost painful to look at for Waylon, though it didn't actually hurt so bad—just a dull ache, at this point.

"There's ace bandages in the bathroom," Miles supplied helpfully. Of course he didn't actually stand to get them. He likely wanted to play voyeur so that when it came time to tease Waylon, he'd have as much dirt on him as possible—and not just that, but he was _always_ a little bit mean to the people he eventually took a liking to. It was as if, in an effort to determine who was worthy of being a friend, he first tried to scare them off, and then, when they proved they wouldn't be cowed, he took them under his wing. Except he was being a little worse to Eddie than anyone before, and Waylon figured that if Eddie got past this, he'd be in for good. He didn't know how to feel about that.

"Sorry," he said, because at the very least, he didn't want Eddie to feel offended by Miles' attitude. Besides, Miles was owed a little payback for all the embarrassing little comments he'd been making with regards to them lately. "His favored method of flirting is still pulling pigtails and hoping that his bad attitude comes across as being interested in you."

Eddie said nothing, just ducked his head as he stood up, curling his arms around Waylon again and lifting him up. In that moment, he realized he should just resign himself to this fate—being carried like a ragdoll in Eddie's arms, as if he wasn't perfectly capable of limping around. Still, he directed them toward the bathroom as if he were navigating an oversized, musclebound tugboat, and soon he was carefully placed on the emptier side of the counter.

"They're in the closet," Waylon said, gesturing toward the door tucked beside the shower. "Sorry."

"You don't have to keep apologizing. It was my fault, anyway. And I don't mind taking care of you."

"It's not about _that_ —It's... the way Miles is acting lately really isn't fair to you." Especially when Waylon knew that underneath everything, the teasing comments, the crude jokes, Miles was just jealous and lashing out in any way he knew how—for a grown man, he could be remarkably immature at times, after all. Unfortunately he was charming enough that people very rarely held a grudge against him for it, and he doubted Eddie would be able to either, even knowing that this was his first real impression of Miles.

Eddie's shoulders lifted in a shrug as he dug through the little basket of first aid supplies in the closet. Excuses seemed to matter little to him; he was more serious than Waylon had first pegged him for, even if he seemed to have a bit of a goofy side, too. It made sense that smiles looked so odd on his face; the way things were shaping up, Waylon doubted he did very much of it.

After a moment, Eddie emerged from the closet with a rolled-up bandage, and he removed the clips as he bent down on one knee, propping Waylon's foot against it. "Tell me if I hurt you," he said, sliding the bandage under Waylon's heel and beginning to slowly cross it up his ankle.

Waylon held still, finding the process surprisingly gentle, all things considered, but still awkward. He sort of wished Eddie had just brought him into the apartment and let Miles take care of the rest of it. And it wasn't that he found him so objectionable, but it had been a long time since someone was so overtly interested in him this way; he didn't recall how it would make his skin feel too tight, itchy under the gaze of someone else. Miles had never looked at him like this, and he was glad of it.

He bowed his head, narrowing his field of vision only to his lap and where Eddie was carefully hooking the clips back into the bandage. "That wasn't too bad," he said softly, for lack of anything better.

"Good. I don't want to hurt you," Eddie replied, and then silence descended upon the room—an awkward stalemate in which Waylon made no attempt to move from the counter, and Eddie did nothing but crouch there, a hulking shape in their small bathroom.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot," Eddie said after a beat, shifting uncomfortably. He was staring at the ace bandage wrapped around Waylon's ankle, almost as if he were ashamed to meet his eyes.

The corner of Waylon's mouth quirked. "If that's a pun, I _really_ don't appreciate it."

Eddie looked confused a moment, then his mouth shaped a surprised _o_ , and finally, he frowned. "No! That isn't what I meant," he rushed out, brows furrowed deeply. With some effort, he forced himself toward composure. "I apologize—I'd just very much like to make it up to you."

Waylon took in a deep breath, then blew it out. "I'm sorry," he began mechanically. He'd never had to _give_ this speech before, but he'd practiced it. Just in case. "From everything I've seen of you, you're a very kind, thoughtful... _attractive_ man, and I'm sure I'm screwing myself over by not taking you up on it. Only... well, relationships are complicated for me right now, and I don't want to lead you on when I'm not sure I can do a lot of the things a relationship consists of. So I appreciate the thought, but..."

"Right," Eddie said quietly. He'd turned his face completely away now, unseeable by Waylon, which made him a little uncomfortable. He didn't want Eddie to get angry. "I understand."

"But if I ever change my mind, you'll be the first one I tell... if that's what you'd like?"

"Of course." He didn't sound particularly convinced of this eventuality. "Where would you like me to put you before I leave?"

"You don't have to carry me," Waylon said. He hopped off the counter, favoring his right foot and keeping it slightly off the ground, then used a hand on the doorframe to start guiding himself into the hallway. To the left of him, Eddie seemed to hesitate with his hand outstretched to steady him, but in the end, he didn't touch, and Waylon felt like he'd ruined the moment too much to say that it was alright.

He hobbled back to the living room where Miles was _still_ on the couch, but with the addition of a stack of pillows, an ice pack, and a glass of water (which was probably unnecessary; Waylon was already starting to feel horrible _and_ sober). It took some careful maneuvering for him to sit down, but soon he was settled with his ankle up on the pillows, ice pack resting on top.

"Thank you," he said to Eddie, once he was comfortable. "And sorry."

Eddie offered him a small bittersweet smile, shrugged his shoulders. "It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't scared you in the first place," he said, and Waylon had to resist the urge to tell him that he hadn't been apologizing for the trouble of taking care of his ankle. "But... ah, the reason I came over to begin with." He pulled a few envelopes from the back of his trousers and dropped them on the tiny square of table space that _wasn't_ covered by beer cans and empty takeout containers. "Our mail seems to have gotten mixed up."

"Wow. Nice job completely overreacting because of some mail, _Waylon_ ," Miles muttered before turning his attention back to Eddie. "Thanks for bringing the clumsy one up."

With a nod, Eddie backed toward the door. "It was no problem. Goodbye."

"See you," Miles and Waylon said in chorus. Years of far too much time spent in each other's space gave them that kind of uncanny gift.

Once the door had shut behind Eddie, Miles leaned forward, gingerly touching Waylon's ankle. Of course he would hold back in front of Eddie; for all that he was jealous, he'd never try to stake a claim. That sort of gesture was _far_ too obvious for him. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah."

"What even _happened_?"

"I don't know," said Waylon, a fresh wave of embarrassment rolling over him. "He just reached out of the dark and it scared me and then I... fell down the stairs."

"Wow. Truly incredible. You deserve a gold medal for that."

"Thank you," Waylon said, doing a sarcastic little half-bow, or as much of a half-bow as he could manage in this position when the great pillow fortress underneath his foot hampered most of the movement.

They were silent for a few seconds. The movie was still paused, but Waylon didn't really remember what had been happening before anyway.

"So he asked you out, huh," Miles said finally.

"I guess so."

"And you turned him down."

"Yeah."

Miles sighed. His hand slid up to rest on Waylon's knee, warm and comforting. "Alright."

He didn't elaborate, and usually they would have left it at that, but Waylon actually _wanted_ to talk about this, so he did. "It's not that I don't find him interesting, or that I wouldn't want to date him if circumstances were different, you know..."

"I know."

"It's just... I don't know." He tugged idly at a loose string on the sofa.

"You're not ready, I know."

"No. It'd be complicated, wouldn't it?"

"Complicated is just about everything," Miles said, quirking an eyebrow at him. "I think you might be surprised at how easy it could be."

"Maybe." Waylon flopped back. His ankle had slowed its throbbing now that the blood was rushing back downwards. "I'm happy with where I am, though."

"Yeah, you've said so."

Waylon smiled, putting his hand on top of Miles' where it still rested on his knee. "I know. I figure your ego isn't big enough just yet."

Miles shot him a smirk. "I feel bad. He's missing out on your delicate sense of charm and wit."

"Yeah, well. You can give him yours instead, if you want."

"Nah. I'm satisfied too."

They gave each other the same look, amused and casually fond and _final_ , and Miles unpaused the movie. They'd fall asleep like this in the quiet of the morning, huddled together with Waylon making pained noises whenever Miles forgot his sprained ankle, but they'd be comfortable all the same. And for another day, Miles would have Waylon all to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://bunansa.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that there are non-explicit references to child sexual abuse in the first paragraph.

There were particular sounds that Eddie found pleasing to listen to when he was just on the verge of waking up, still warm and safe beneath his sheets: the distant rumble of thunder, for instance, and rain pattering on the windows. Birds chirping. Even silence had its place, because at least it was peaceful, and at least it wasn't the sounds he hated: doors being opened secretively, feet careful on the floor so as not to wake his mother in the next room where she slept without his father beside her, or later, frantic shouting between them in the dead of night that sent him swirling into panic, his throat closed up, eyes slammed shut.

He wasn't particularly sure how he should categorize waking up to the sounds of his neighbors having sex. On the one hand, he'd only been asleep for two and a half hours when it started, and it was undoubtedly a very vulgar thing to do. But on the _other_ hand, it wasn't exactly a hardship to listen to. Not that there was much to begin with; it was the headboard suddenly knocking against the wall that roused him, but after that, there was only the slight rhythmic shift of the bed moving, and maybe, if he listened hard enough, a few moans that he couldn't discern the owner of. They had extremely similar tones of voice, after all, though Miles had this particular cockiness to each word as though he didn't ever question that people listened when he spoke, while Waylon sounded a bit more reserved and spoke only when he truly needed to.

He was sure he'd be able to tell them apart if they were talking, but there was none of that. There was only those soft, muted moans, which made him feel guilty because it was incredibly hard not to think about sex when this was the soundtrack to his sleeplessness. His groggy mind was easily coerced into imagining them—Miles first, with his lean build, taller than Waylon but still a good few inches shorter than Eddie. His hair always looked windswept at the front, or like he'd been tugging on it, but now he imagined that maybe _Waylon_ could be the cause for that. And his face held a perpetual expression of being entertained, smirking about something only he was privy to even when anyone could see the object of his amusement. Eddie wondered if that was what he looked like during sex, or if his eyebrows tilted up out of their amused arch, his sharp eyes closing, soft lips parting.

Then there was Waylon—best saved for last, _Waylon_ with his delicate bones, the tiny layer of fat that barely just showed under the t-shirts he wore. The way his eyes crinkled up when he smiled (and the more Eddie saw him, the more he warmed up, the more he smiled) and the untouchably distant way he held himself, like catnip for Eddie, who imagined nothing he wanted more than something that tried to hide itself away. Imagining that in a sexual setting, Waylon spread out and unraveling beneath him, was more than enough for him to start getting hard in the pajama pants he'd worn to bed.

It wasn't something he'd let himself think about just yet; mostly, his thoughts of Waylon were different, a cautious longing too afraid or too stubborn to leap the chasm and settle in deeply just yet, a curiosity, and somewhere underneath all that, a kind of familiarity. He wasn't sure what that was all about, just that when Waylon turned his head a certain way, it felt like déjà vu, and his awkward stance sometimes reminded Eddie so deeply of something he couldn't put his finger on that it felt maddening, like he might claw at his own mind just to see if he could sift the knowledge from its shreds.

Now he gave himself free reign to wonder about them, about what Waylon might be like—if he was really as careful and elusive in bed as he acted around Eddie, or if he came out of his shell. A part of him was even curious about Miles, though he found himself sure that there wasn't a single moment in his life that Miles had ever _not_ been cocky.

The two of them together seemed like a fleeting thought, something he couldn't hold on to for that long before the image disappeared. Really, he thought he should be a little bit upset about being lied to, because Waylon had _said_ they weren't sweethearts, and why would you entrust someone to this part of yourself if you didn't love them? But Eddie was only too aware that people had a different view of the way relationships should work than he did, and maybe they _weren't_ dating, maybe this was the kind of thing Waylon liked? Maybe _this_ was what he was talking about when he said that relationships were complicated for him.

He rubbed idly at the front of his pants, buried mostly in thought when the talking started, almost unintelligible through the wall until he scooted his back against the headboard.

"Harder," the first voice demanded, and Eddie was fairly certain this was Miles just from the way he seemed to know that he was asking for something he deserved even in that one word alone.

"Sure, let me just use my screwed-up ankle to get some leverage to fuck you when you're perfectly capable of doing it yourself." And that was definitely Waylon, his voice brash and unexpectedly vulgar but so affectionate (and how didn't Eddie notice that before, how didn't he _see_ that what was between them went deeper than friends?) that Eddie felt both instantly jealous that he wasn't allowed to experience it firsthand, and as though he were intruding on something he'd never been meant to hear.

There was a grunt of annoyance, then a moan, the squeak of the bed frame.

"You should put some effort into this," Miles goaded. "So lazy, Waylon... I can't do _everything_ , you know."

Eddie screwed his eyes even further shut until he could picture Waylon sprawled in bed with Miles on top of him, mouthy little thing begging for attention as Waylon tried to keep up with him. It wasn't a bad image, really, except that Eddie would have liked it more if it were _him_ sprawled in bed, Waylon on top of him, and Miles... well, Eddie was aware he was attractive, and maybe he wanted the upper hand over him, but it wasn't the same as how he felt for Waylon. He supposed he wouldn't have minded Miles being there, though it didn't come anywhere as close to the visceral bolt of sheer hunger he felt for Waylon.

"If you want to be so picky, maybe you should go out and find someone better tailored to your interests," said Waylon, and even the way he _teased_ was affectionate. It made Eddie feel a little bit sick to his stomach.

"Maybe _you_ should."

"What?"

"Maybe you should find somebody who wants to be gentle and patient with you."

"Who says I'm into gentle and _patient_?" Waylon asked. He sounded rather offended at this implication.

"You _are_."

"Maybe sometimes... but I don't mind it this way. I like it."

"I bet Eddie would be gentle and patient with you," Miles said, plowing right on no matter what Waylon said. It made Eddie freeze up, palm going still over the bulge of his cock as his eyes flew open. Had he misheard...? There was no way this was real. It was just his fantasy encroaching on their... _canoodling_. It wasn't his name that had been spoken.

"Not this again..." It sounded like a topic Waylon had heard many times, and was very sick of at this point, and that made Eddie feel a little nauseous with melancholy.

"Yeah, _this_ again. Don't think I haven't noticed you starting to pay more attention when there's someone at the door," said Miles.

Eddie bit his lip, tilting his head even closer toward the wall. He hadn't expected to hear any kind of deep conversation, and he felt even guiltier about listening in now, but he couldn't tear himself away. Not when he might finally hear some truth about Waylon.

"It's not like I'm waiting for him to show up."

"That's not what I was implying. Are you sure about that?"

"Shut up, Miles."

"No. We should talk about this. I want to know about my enemy in love!"

"Wow, really? First of all, he's not your enemy. Second of all, I'm not in love with him _or_ you. And third of all, you were just complaining about me not fucking you hard enough, but you've stopped moving."

Eddie wondered if this is commonplace for them—did they sleep together often? Did they always argue during it? It certainly was an odd arrangement.

"Why do you have to be so serious?" Miles whined. "I'm just playing..."

There was a loud exhalation on the other side of the wall, the sound of the bed shifting, and Eddie assumed that meant they'd restarted. For a minute or two, there was no speaking, and out of the strange territory in which he had been the hot topic, he felt it safe to resume rubbing the palm of his hand over his cock. It was remarkably hard to get off to hearing about himself, but soon he'd worked himself up to actually pushing his pants and underwear down, wrapping a hand around his cock. Even the slight shame of it had him more wound up than usual, insistent as he jerked himself.

And then, cutting the silence, Waylon's voice. "What do you think he's like?"

Miles laughed. Eddie didn't think he was too far off the mark when he imagined it as triumphant. "I think he'd probably take you on nice dates and buy you flowers and hold your hand... take you home to meet his parents, all that shit."

Eddie almost muttered that he _wouldn't_ —well, he supposed if circumstances took him that way, he'd take Waylon on nice dates and buy him flowers and hold his hand, yes. The idea was perfectly pleasant. But these days there were no parents to take anyone home to, and Eddie was thankful for that fact, _gleeful_ in the loss of them. They'd been vile people when they were alive, and it had taken him years to be comfortable believing that; still, _these days_? He wouldn't want even his worst enemy to have to know about them, let alone Waylon.

Waylon, who would never deserve something so terrible as that. Waylon, who was laughing from next door, a clear, sweet sound that dragged him out of those bad thoughts."Yeah? You're right, he'd be nothing like you."

"Well, you didn't have to put it _that_ way."

"Did I hurt your feelings?" Waylon almost sounded like he genuinely _did_ want to hurt Miles' feelings, but Eddie found that hard to truly believe, so he must have been joking.

"Yeah. Are you gonna apologize?" Miles asked. "Or should I tell Eddie this is what you're really like? Would he still pay attention to you then?"

"Does it matter?"

"It does," said Miles. "I think you're starting to like him, even if you don't want to admit it."

"Is that so."

"And I think not only would he act like a perfect gentleman for you, he'd probably fuck you the way you're fucking _me_. Which is to say... kind of boring. Very vanilla. A solid C minus. Average. Better luck next time."

Eddie sneered at that, because Miles didn't know _anything_ , and anyway, he couldn't imagine Waylon being boring in anything at all.

"Wow. Rude. I don't think he'd be boring in bed," said Waylon, and maybe Eddie perked up a little at that, or at the very least, tightened his fist and jerked himself off harder.

"Oh? How do you think he'd be, then?" Miles inquired.

"I think... I don't know. He seems like the type that wants to be in control."

It was a fair enough assessment, and Eddie found himself nodding along before he realized Waylon couldn't see him. That in itself was lucky.

"Yeah? He also seems like the type that enjoys missionary sex with the lights off and the covers pulled up," said Miles derisively.

"What's wrong with _that_?" Eddie whispered to himself, furrowing his eyebrows as he pressed his thumb against the slit of his cock, moaning a little when his hips bucked up into the touch. For a moment, he worried that they'd hear him, but they continued on just as they had before.

"Then maybe you can give him lessons on how to be better in bed, since you consider yourself some kind of expert."

"Oh, I'd _love_ to give him lessons," said Miles. The smirk was apparent in his voice, and Eddie sighed, because how _old_ were they? They had to be at least fifteen years younger than him, and he highly doubted they could teach him anything he didn't already know.

"Pervert."

"I'm nothing if not consistent."

"Yeah, I'm fully aware."

"How would _you_ treat him in bed, then?" Miles wondered. Their bed squeaked sharply, abruptly, before settling into a measured thump. "Would you ride him like this? Or would you let him keep you under him?"

Waylon underneath him—that was quickly becoming Eddie's favorite thought, and he knew he should have been disgusted with himself for it; however, his cock twitching in his palm was more urgent than shame, and he his fist squeezed carefully around his cock, precome dripping freely from the slit. He could come with a little more attention to himself, but he didn't want to do that just yet. All he wanted was to listen to Waylon as he fleshed out the scenario.

"I—I don't know," said Waylon. His breathing hissed out with effort even through the walls. "Miles, _Miles_ , ah—fuck, that feels..."

"Good? You could make him feel like that, I bet. You'd probably rock his fucking world."

The moans that had been filling the room next door halted abruptly. "You think I'd _rock his world_? What are you, twelve?" Waylon asked, laughing.

"Nah, a few years older, at least."

"Hm."

"But really... I think he likes you a lot."

"He doesn't even _know_ me," Waylon said, sounding bewildered.

"Trust me, I know it's weird that other people can just feel like that so easily, but you pretty much fell in love with Lisa at first sight, didn't you? So why would it be so strange that he could feel that way about you?" For the first time, Eddie heard Miles sounding serious, and it was surprising the surge of gratefulness he felt toward him for it.

"Because... I don't know."

"If you feel even a little something for him, then you should give it a try. Yeah, it might all go wrong, but what if it goes _right_? There's more to life than being content."

"What happened to me fucking you?" asked Waylon with an edge of nervousness in his voice, obviously trying to distract from this topic. In a way, Eddie felt glad for it, because he didn't want to get his hopes up. Still, there was a little thrill in his stomach that had nothing to do with the way he was rubbing his cock.

"What happened to you telling me how you'd fuck him?" Miles countered, and their bed was louder once more.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?"

Miles laughed. He had quite a nice laugh, even if it sounded a little cruel when matched against Waylon's more obviously fond one. "Did you know that every time I've brought Eddie up, your hands get tighter on me? And you push your hips up a little harder?"

Waylon was silent, and Eddie bit his lip viciously as he clamped his fingers around the base of his cock, suddenly way too close to coming.

"It's alright that you want to fuck him," Miles continued. "I wouldn't mind it either."

"Fine, yes, I'd let him keep me under him," said Waylon quickly, like he'd been bursting just to say it. "Keep... keep doing that, don't stop..."

"You wouldn't ride him? You're awfully good at that."

There was a long silence, as if Waylon was weighing the pros and cons of admitting anything further to Miles, who seemed in no mood at all to stop goading him on.

"I'd want him to be on top of me first... but if it's just a fantasy, I'm sure I could ride him later," he eventually said. It was certainly not a bad mental image either, though Eddie was a bit grudging about giving up the ability to call the shots. Still, he didn't imagine Waylon would be anywhere near as teasing as Miles in bed—Eddie liked to think he'd be sweet and giving, so he didn't mind the idea of handing him that little piece of control.

"That's good," said Miles. "He's a lot bigger than you, he'd probably push you into the bed by weight alone."

A choked moan beyond the wall, the slap of skin on skin getting louder.

"Oh, you like that, don't you?" Miles asked. "You want him to hold you down while he fucks you? His hands on your shoulders, hard enough to leave bruises?"

"Yes, _yes_ ," Waylon moaned, Eddie echoing him at the thought of it.

"He'd kiss you too, but I bet he'd be so gentle... He'd fuck you until you're bruised and then kiss all of them even while he pushes his fingers into them and makes you ache everywhere."

"... Isn't that what _you_ want?" asked Waylon, sounding slightly breathless.

"What? Oh. Well, I guess I wouldn't mind it."

Waylon laughed. "You'd hate it if he was gentle with you."

"Shh. This isn't about me."

"Hm... Fine, tell me more about your creepy fantasy of us, then."

Eddie sighed, dropping his head back against the headboard in frustration. Not that he didn't want to listen, but he was starting to feel the strain of needing to come, the pressure in his stomach pleasant now, yet sure to fade soon. A glance at the clock showed that a little over half an hour had passed, and he wondered if they'd ever finish.

"Alright. If you don't want him to be that rough with you, he'd probably—"

"I didn't say _that_ ," said Waylon. "Just that I don't really like to take it as far as you do."

"Will you be quiet and let me finish my sentence? As I was saying, he'd probably be pretty vanilla anyway."

"Your circular logic is vanilla."

Miles grumbled. "Then tell me what you want."

"I... anything would be nice, I guess."

"You're so fucking _indecisive_ ," Miles said, sounding positively delighted. " _Anything_? Christ. Do you want him to make you suck his cock? Turn you on your stomach and pull your ass up so he can fuck you? The world is yours, Waylon Park!"

"It's not even _real_!"

"Imagination! He doesn't have to know that you fantasize about him."

It wasn't exactly a secret to Eddie now, but he supposed they didn't have to know that _he_ knew, and he held his breath, waiting for Waylon to speak.

"I want... to sit on his face," said Waylon cautiously.

"Good, that's good."

Very good, in fact; Eddie wouldn't have minded that a bit—in the heat of the moment, he'd be entirely welcoming if Waylon came over right now and asked for it. He squeezed his cock, stomach clenching, and knew he was less than a few minutes from coming, whether he wanted to or not.

"What else?" Miles prompted, when Waylon didn't continue.

"What do you _think_?"

"Are you gonna ride his tongue? Or are you gonna let him hold you open and eat you out until you beg for him to let you come?"

Waylon moaned, his breath loud and clear even through the wall. "Yeah, yeah."

"Yeah? You're gonna let him make you wet? Do you think he'd let you come just from that? Or would he want to fuck you before, slick with his spit and just loose enough for him to push in nice and deep?"

" _Please_ ," Waylon cried, and that was it, too much for Eddie—he spilled over his fingers, stomach tensing and making him curl forward at each wrenching wave of orgasm. He was breathing hard as his hand coaxed himself further along, one hand reaching out to clench in the sheets beside himself, but still he strained to hear what was being said next door.

"I think he'd fuck you nice and slow," said Miles, and his words were coming more frantically now. "He'd make you feel every inch of his cock filling you up, and he'd only give you as much as he wants to, but he'd still make you come so hard."

"Ah, fuck, Miles, _Miles_ , I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, do it," Miles demanded, and then Waylon's voice went sharp and loud before dying out entirely.

Eddie put a hand over his eyes and sighed, guilt finally overpowering the arousal that had been present before. He'd need to clean himself up before going back to bed, but he was strangely reluctant to move just yet.

"That was weird," said Waylon eventually.

"Yeah, but you came really hard."

There was a noisy sigh and the bed squeaked, as if someone had rolled over. "Now I feel kind of gross..."

"He'll never know," Miles promised.

* * *

The air was hot and electrified as Eddie walked to his car after work the next evening, sky bruised gray and purple, trees rustling overhead. It was his favorite time, the odd stillness right before a storm when the world seemed to be empty for everyone but him. Thunder was heavy in the distance, and right as he ducked into the driver's seat, the clouds opened up and rain started pouring down. He delighted in that, the near miss—always had.

As he drove through town, he watched shopfronts closing up, streetlights coming on. The few souls out were the ones unlucky enough to have gotten caught in it, and they rushed around under umbrellas, heading for their homes as fast as they could go. It'd be a good night to do just that, settle himself on the couch with an old movie, but unfortunately it wasn't in the books just yet.

Instead, he pulled up in front of a mid-century townhouse that had one lone light burning through a window, looking cozy and welcoming through the growing darkness. Eddie nudged the car door open, popped his umbrella against the downpour, and hurried across the sidewalk and up the stairs.

It took a bit of fumbling with the door, but he soon stepped inside and out of the summer shower. A cool wave hit him, air blowing on the tiny droplets of water that had permeated his shirt, making him shiver, but his attention was drawn to the woman waiting for him in the doorway—more than a foot shorter than him with dark skin, curly brown-black hair that always smelled sweet when he brushed by her, and big brown eyes that were sympathetic when they needed to be, but also entirely capable of conveying her frustration with him, which occurred on a decently regular schedule.

"Hi, Eddie," she greeted, folding her hands in front of herself. Right now she looked pleased to see him, but then, she always did. It shouldn't have been so strange to him at this point.

"Good evening, Lisa." It used to be that he called her Dr. Carter always, a habit he'd maintained with every therapist he'd ever had prior to her, but she'd managed to get him to stop over the years. Not that it was easy with so _many_ years of habit under his belt. All in all, Eddie attended therapy much less than he used to—when he was twenty, he went almost every single day; by the time he was twenty-five, he managed to drop down to three times a week, then once a week when he was thirty, once a month when he was thirty-five, and once every two months when he was forty. That had been bad, though—two months, and it got very easy to start letting his thoughts get the better of him, so it was back to once a month. That was the sweet spot, he'd found.

It followed, of course, that there had been a lot of therapists in his life. Good ones, bad ones, but not very many like Lisa. He liked her the most out of anyone he'd ever visited, because she easy to talk to but good at wrangling his emotions too, and altogether excellent at finding solutions to problems. Perhaps he was a little more willing to bend to her requests than he would have been with anyone previously.

"Looking a little rough out there," she said, bowing away so that he could enter the hallway leading back to her office. "Why don't you get yourself something to drink and I'll find you a towel to sit on."

He did, waffling between a bottle of sweet tea and water in the mini fridge, ultimately taking the water before heading into the office. Lisa was already sitting in her usual perch: a worn-out brown leather wingback that engulfed her and creaked with each movement she made. He took his own designated floral print armchair, which was currently draped with a towel, and made himself comfortable.

"How was your day?" she began, once he had settled.

Eddie had always found this a bit strange at first; she wasn't particularly businesslike in the way she talked, leaning much more toward welcoming and friendly, willing to start slow, and concerned about him beyond what her job description implied. He'd gotten rather fond of it, actually. It made talking about the hard things much easier if he imagined her as a friend instead of someone he paid.

"Enjoyable," he decided, eventually.

"That so? You don't sound too sure about it."

"I had trouble sleeping last night," he said, glancing slightly away from her as he remembered the cause of his sleeplessness. Surely it showed on his face.

"Ah. Bad dreams again?" she asked, eyebrows pinching together worriedly.

"No. My neighbors were being a bit noisy."

She brightened right up at that. "Oh, of course! Your neighbors. We haven't gotten to talk about the new living situation yet... Having trouble with them or something?"

He laughed, and though it was a short thing, it was darkly amused. "Not trouble, necessarily."

"Wanna elaborate?"

"They were having intercourse," he said with a shrug, trying to seem nonchalant about it, but the way he fumbled when he took the cap off of his water bottle might have given it away.

"Ooh." She didn't seem to know what facial expression to make at that, but gave him her best concerned-but-subtly-amused look anyway.

"And I..." He hesitated momentarily, blowing out a breath, then continuing. "May have heard rather a lot of it."

"Ah. I see." She wasn't judging. Not yet, anyway.

"Then I felt badly about it."

"Hm. Okay, have you thought about talking to them about it?" she asked.

He had, and he knew exactly how it would go—Miles would invite him in to show him exactly how _real_ he could make those fantasies, Waylon would act mortified and probably never speak to him again, and Eddie would regret it for the rest of his life. All in all, not exactly the preferred outcome. "I don't suppose that would go very well."

"Alright... Not that I condone hiding things from people, especially if it made you uncomfortable, or trying to assuage misplaced guilt, but maybe you could bring it up casually, you know. Tell them that they might want to keep it down at night, but let them know you're not angry? Like... you could take them some of your salted caramel cupcakes? Totally not suggesting this just because I want the leftovers. Definitely not."

Eddie smiled. "I could do that."

Lisa laughed, grinning widely back at him. She had a dimple in one cheek. It made her feel even more sincere, somehow. "Good. I'm gonna go make myself a cup of tea, and we'll continue when I get back."

He nodded, and she stood to leave the room. As always when she did this, he quietly observed his surroundings. Aside from the scattered tea cups, Lisa was pretty tidy, but she definitely liked to keep a lot of personal effects around. Her bookshelves were filled more with framed photographs than anything else, and he didn't know how many times he'd examined them by now. Something about observing the healthy relationships she seemed to have with her family and friends through the pictures comforted him, especially since the only photographs he had of his family were horrible, filthy things that he'd never been able to rub out of his mind even after he burned them.

Usually he started from the top row and worked his way down to the bottom, but today he did the opposite, and didn't even get halfway through the row before he stopped, eyes glued to a particular photograph.

It was innocuous enough, just Waylon's arm around Lisa's shoulders, both of them smiling brightly at the camera, but knowing Waylon and how distant he came off even with Miles at times, he could see the intimacy there. It was in the way he leaned against her, his hand brushing her collarbone, and how he seemed so content. The sight of it stunned Eddie. Of course he remembered making a wedding dress for Lisa, the same one that was still half-finished on a mannequin at work, but the faceless, nebulous fiancé had remained that way in his mind until this very moment. It had been _Waylon_ all those years ago, napping on the couch with that innocent face, smiling helplessly and happily at Lisa as she tried on the dress for fittings, Waylon who had always greeted Eddie with a bashful smile. The reason he felt so much familiarity toward him was suddenly crystal clear. And he wondered if Waylon remembered it, or if he had put that part of his life in the past. It sure didn't seem that way, if he spent his time not-dating Miles, wearing an old wedding ring, and turning down everyone else who approached him.

But it was bitter of Eddie to think that way, really. He had always been under the impression that he fell in love too easily, yet he had only ever been told the opposite—that he didn't _really_ see who was underneath his heavy expectations, that he was hard to communicate with, that he was quick to write people off; that no one felt like they'd ever made a deep, lasting connection with him.

He felt bad for Waylon, and had since he'd moved in, because he didn't think it was enjoyable to receive attention from himself. He felt bad that Waylon had to turn him down, not only because he'd wanted a chance for himself, but because Waylon _didn't_ , and once more he was pushing his feelings on someone, making them into something they weren't and would never be in his mind.

Already he felt guilt, but looking at how happy Waylon and Lisa were in the photograph cemented it. It wasn't his place to be looking at this, or to feel jealousy. He had no claim on Waylon, and didn't have any right to want his time, but part of him ached to deserve it all the same.

"Whatcha doin'?" Lisa asked, and Eddie jumped, backing guiltily away from the shelf.

"Nothing," he said.

"Hey, don't worry. I don't mind if you look. They're there for a reason," she said, lifting the mug to her mouth to take a sip. She nudged her hip against him on the way past, glancing down to where she must have assumed he was looking. "Something catch your eye?"

Eddie hesitated only momentarily before curiosity got the better of him, and he pointed at what had been the focus of his attention. "May I ask who that is with you?"

Lisa looked at the picture for several seconds in silence, the smile on her face turning a little sad, and he immediately regretted asking. She didn't deserve to be sad. "That's Waylon... My ex. You don't remember him? The one I was marrying? He came with me to the shop all the time."

"Ah. I guess my memory is a bit hazy when it comes to the grooms."

"Is this what you'd like to discuss today?" The way she said it wasn't a rebuke, more like she was making sure that he wouldn't rather have spent his time on anything more pressing.

"Is that alright?"

"To a certain point," she said, cupping her hands tighter around the mug. "I'll let you know if you ask anything off base."

He went ahead and bit the bullet, deciding to get the worst of it out of the way. "Do you still see him?"

"Sometimes. He lives in town, but he's kind of a shut-in workaholic type."

"Is that why you broke off the engagement?" he asked.

She tilted her head to the side, tapped her fingers on her mug, and drew in a deep breath through her nose as she thought. "Part of it. For me, at least. We both had a tendency to get pretty involved in our work, but I guess he just always went further with it than I did. It made things hard at times."

"So you wouldn't get back together with him if he asked?"

"Eddie, if you're trying to ask me on a date, I'm going to have to remind you about my moral code," she teased.

It was an uncomfortable implication, and false, too. "I'm only curious."

"He wouldn't ask," she said, amused. "We were mutual in our split, and anyway, he doesn't think of me like that anymore."

Eddie nearly asked her why Waylon didn't want to date other people then, if he was supposedly over her, but caught himself before it was too late. "Oh."

"Don't think relationships will be like that for you, Eddie," she said, reaching over and patting his knee. "We were an odd case. Maybe we just weren't right for each other, but I don't regret any of the time I spent with him. Wouldn't change it for the world. I mean, he's got something that wasn't right for me, and I have something that wasn't right for him, but we're both gonna be right for somebody. We made each other as happy as we could, and now it's time that we both do that for someone else."

She was so optimistic and articulate, it was no wonder that hearing her calmed him down no matter _what_ she spoke about. He nodded in understanding, and she grinned brightly up at him. "Okay? So you don't have to worry. You're going to be right for someone too. I promise."

* * *

Once Lisa suggested making a dialogue-opening batch of cupcakes for Waylon and Miles, Eddie was unable to stop thinking about it; baking, after all, was one of the few hobbies that had really stuck with him through the years, long enough for him to have become exceedingly skilled at it, and it was a plus that he actually enjoyed it.

Thus, 7AM on a Saturday found him awake, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows as he cored cupcakes, humming to himself. He had an apron on to limit the damage (done up like a powder-blue tuxedo, lovingly made for him by Anita, his boss, even though her fingers weren't nearly as nimble as they used to be), but it didn't account for the steadily growing mess on the counters as he scooped soft caramel into the hollow centers of the cupcakes, then piped icing over them and drizzled a further layer of liquid caramel on top of that before finishing them off with sea salt. It was a long, involved process that nevertheless paid off in the end.

By the time he considered them done, it was almost ten. He tucked six of them into a box, wrapped it up carefully, and there it sat on the counter for another two hours as he tried to figure out what he was supposed to say. Did he imply he had something to beg forgiveness for? Did he make it seem like it was a gift? Or did he just come out and say ' _sorry, I might have done something vulgar, here's how it went_ '? Lisa had seemed to think they deserved an equal measure of the blame, but she didn't know the entire story.

In the end, he didn't come to a conclusion before there was a knock on the door—a rare enough occurrence for him that he had to pause and strain his ears to figure out if it was really at _his_ door, or Miles and Waylon's, as was often the case.

But it was his, definitely. It was too loud and close not to be, so he pulled back the deadbolt and swung the door open to find Waylon bracing himself against the wall with one hand, looking nervous.

"Good afternoon," Eddie said. He hadn't calculated for this, and had no idea what to do, being confronted before he'd figured out his strategy.

"Hi, Eddie," said Waylon, giving him a hesitant smile.

Despite everything, he was somehow happy to see Waylon here. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Um... I just haven't seen you for a while, I figured I'd check up on you?" Waylon said, as if he wasn't one hundred percent sure of his words.

"Ah. Would you like to come in?" The invite was out of Eddie's mouth before he could even think to make sure the apartment was tidy, but he supposed the place was never all that bad anyway, aside from the sitting area and dining table being littered with sewing supplies, and he knew the kitchen still showed heavy evidence of his previous baking, and that his laundry basket was sitting in the middle of the hall, waiting for him to take care of it.

He grimaced as he remembered each thing out of its place, but didn't rescind the invitation, and Waylon smiled at him again, a little less hesitant. "That would be nice, thank you."

Eddie stood back to let him in, watching the way he hobbled on his injured ankle. He had a strong urge to help him along, but didn't think it would be appreciated, especially after last time. "Shouldn't you be resting that?" he wondered as he shut the door behind Waylon. "You could have sent Miles over instead."

"Oh, he's out doing work today. And I can walk as long as I'm careful with it."

"If you say so," Eddie murmured dubiously. He hustled over to the couch, clearing off the bolts of fabric that covered it and placing them on the coffee table, then gesturing at the newly emptied space. "Have a seat."

"I don't want to take up too much of your time," said Waylon, but he sat down anyway. "I was just worried that I hadn't seen you around for a few days."

Eddie hadn't been under the impression that his presence was particularly desired or noticed; still, it warmed him to hear that. "I've had a lot to do at work lately." Which was only halfway a lie; he might have been leaving for work earlier and coming home later, but that was all in a bid to avoid seeing Miles or Waylon. Part of it was guilt, and the other was that seeing Waylon sent a painful bolt of want through him every time, even knowing that he didn't have a chance.

"Oh. Well... we wish we could see you more," said Waylon, as if that was a normal thing to say to someone he barely knew and who he'd given a pretty heavy impression of disliking.

Eddie had to force down a laugh, highly doubting the sincerity of that statement, but Waylon had the kind of face that made it hard not to believe him. "That's nice of you to say," he relented.

The silence that followed was awkward, but less so than the conversation had been; Eddie stood halfway between the couch and the door, hovering about, because he wasn't sure what else to do. Waylon seemed just as confused, hands clenched together in his lap.

"Um... anyway, that was all, really," he said, when the silence had stretched too long.

"I see."

Waylon started to get up, bracing himself on the arm of the couch as he did so. "And... I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."

"I don't know why. You've done nothing wrong. But it's alright." Eddie knew how stiff he sounded, could hear it in his own ears, and it made him think about all the times people had told him he was too hard to read, too removed from situations, that it felt like he didn't care about anything that happened around him, and still he couldn't stop it or _fix_ it.

"You're not even going to ask?" There was disappointment on Waylon's face, clear to see—everything he did made him so open and easy to read, the complete opposite of how Eddie saw himself.

"Whatever it is, it's not bad enough for me to not forgive you, so it's alright," Eddie said, and feeling uncomfortable with that topic going any further, he retrieved the box of cupcakes from the counter. "These are for you and Miles."

Waylon took the box that Eddie had thrust into his hands and curiously peeked inside. "Oh! Wow. Did you make these?"

"Yes." Eddie clasped his hands behind his back and stood up a little straighter in pride at the look of satisfaction on Waylon's face.

"You didn't have to do that... thank you."

For some reason, that made Eddie feel embarrassed. "It was my pleasure."

"I'll keep them secret from Miles," Waylon said, winking at him as he tucked the box closed again. He was actually _joking_ with Eddie, and it made his heart beat faster. For some reason, he found himself remembering how Lisa told him that he'd be right for someone too. "Keep them all to myself."

"They're for him as well," said Eddie, stumbling on his words a little. "But if you decide you like them that much, there's more where they came from."

"I think I'll remember that... But for now I ought to get out of your hair before I wear out that offer."

"You won't wear it out," Eddie assured him, entirely too serious.

"Whatever you say. Um... would you mind being my crutch? You don't have a lot of furniture in here to lean on," Waylon said apologetically, and Eddie nodded immediately. His heart leapt straight up into his throat when Waylon gripped his arm for support, taking one hobbling step forward, and Eddie got the point to guide him along, feeling more like a dog chasing its owner than an adult letting someone out of his apartment.

In the doorway, Waylon let go of his arm, the warmth of his smaller hands fading away. He was smiling, a little flushed if Eddie was seeing him properly. "Thanks, but I can take it from here. I'll see you around, okay? Don't feel like you have to hide from us."

Eddie thought about the other night, jerking off to him and Miles, thought about the picture on the bottom row of Lisa's shelf, and about the strong desire he felt for Waylon that hadn't been stifled even after he'd been turned down. He didn't know how to act normal around him, and wasn't sure how to make that happen unless he stayed away until he was forced to give up on him.

But what he said was, "Of course." And maybe he didn't care all that much if his heart broke, just as long as Waylon kept smiling at him like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://bunansa.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

By some minor miracle, Waylon had remained asleep when Miles got out of bed and stumbled sleepily for the shower, but by the time he came back, towel draped around his waist and shivering from the cold air blowing on his skin, he was awake, sitting up in bed and scrolling through something on his phone. He guessed he should have been thrilled about it, seeing as it meant Waylon had slept at _all_ , but...

"I'm going out tomorrow night," Waylon said, before Miles could even wish him a good morning.

The words themselves were shocking enough that Miles halted in place completely. "What?"

"Lisa wants to go out to dinner."

"And you're okay with seeing her for the second time in two months," said Miles, eyebrows furrowing together. Waylon jumped at the mere _mention_ of Lisa sometimes, and now he just wanted to dive right in? Pretty brave. Or idiotic.

"What? You act like she slighted me personally or something."

"No, it's just that you avoid talking about her constantly and you're clearly still hung up about... all that shit. But now you want to see her _again_?"

Waylon sighed, shifting his legs under the sheets. His hair was sticking up all over the place, and there were crease marks from the sheets on his cheeks. It was all very adorable to Miles, but not adorable enough to keep the suspicious glint out of his eyes.

"It's just, lately I've been thinking it might be time to work on moving on. And she emailed me and said that talking to a patient of hers made her think about me... Besides, I miss her."

"Alright," Miles said cautiously. "Well what am I—"

Waylon interrupted, off in his own world and unlikely to return any time soon. "Oh, by the way. Your sister called while you were in the shower."

"Which one?"

Waylon gave him an unimpressed look. "The only one who seems to know what phone calls are?"

"Megan knows what phone calls are..." Miles muttered, rolling his eyes. Waylon could be so old-fashioned sometimes; for someone who worked in the technology field, he sure did hold a massive grudge against its conveniences.

"I've never seen you receive _one_ phone call from her," said Waylon.

"Okay, it was Abigail, I get it. Did she say what she wanted?"

"No. She just asked me to get you to call her back... Hey, you could go out for drinks with her tomorrow while I'm gone if you're looking for something to do!"

"Yeah. Drinking with a pregnant woman, sounds great," Miles said as he toweled off his chest. It was getting too cold to stand there naked for very much longer. "I'm sure she'd _love_ to go drinking, it'll fit right in with the rest of her paranoid mom lifestyle."

"Geez, sorry. Take her to dinner instead?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders. "Last time I took her to dinner she spent half an hour detailing her lamaze classes to me, and then she ate my entire plate of steak when I only said she could have a bite."

"Well... I'm sure you'll figure something out," Waylon said eventually, dismissively. It wasn't _his_ problem, after all.

A part of Miles wished Waylon would just invite him along, but he knew why he didn't, and besides, the desire stemmed from jealousy. Realistically, he knew Waylon wasn't going to get back with Lisa, but a part of him still had difficulty accepting that as a fact. He rubbed the towel through his hair before migrating to the dresser, only halfway paying attention to what he pulled out.

"Have you seen Eddie around lately?" Waylon asked after a few seconds.

"Usually only when I go to check the mail. He was doing laundry when I was the other night, too. Why?"

"Just curious."

Miles paused in buttoning up his jeans. "Really."

"I just worry, okay! It's not like I could flat-out say, 'hey, the other night my roommate and I had sex during which the concept of fucking you was discussed multiple times; you wouldn't happen to have heard it and be avoiding us because of it, would you?'"

"Would you like me to ask him next time I see him?" Miles asked tartly.

"No, because you actually _will_ , and then even if he didn't hear, he'd _know_."

"Fine, fine. I won't say anything about it," said Miles, voice muffled as he pulled a t-shirt on over his head. Next went his wallet and phone into his pockets, and then he pulled his usual brown leather jacket on. "Make the bed before you get yourself wrapped up in whatever you're doing. I'm sick of my room looking like a pigsty because of you."

Waylon stuck his tongue out petulantly, and Miles couldn't resist crawling halfway up the bed to give him a kiss. It was quick and not nearly dirty enough for his liking, but he couldn't distract himself; not everyone had the luxury of staying in bed all day if they wanted to. In the end he pulled back, unsatisfied, and clambered off the bed.

"I might bring lunch home if I get a chance. We'll see how it goes," he called as he breezed out of the bedroom. By the front door, he put on his shoes and grabbed his keys, then stepped out into the hallway and right into someone's chest.

"Easy there," said a smug, sleazy voice. "You don't have to be so _anxious_ to see me."

Miles took a step back quickly, back flat to the door. It wasn't that he was trying to protect himself, but more that he wanted to be as far away from the cologne stink cloud that followed Jeremy everywhere he went. "What do you want, Blaire?"

"Just getting some complaints recently about the noise level in your apartment... figured I'd come up and take a look around." Jeremy leaned forward, putting his face far too close to Miles' so that he couldn't see anything but his enormous forehead, his terribly pubescent facial hair, and his smirk. His own nose crinkled up, a look of disgust washing over him that wasn't even feigned. "Think you could let me in?"

"I think I could tell you to fuck off," Miles said. "That sounds like a bullshit excuse. I don't buy it."

"Really?"

"Yes. Do you even do your job here, or do you just spend time coming up with shitty reasons to intimidate Waylon? Get _over_ it already. I'm sick of you stinking up the place."

The smirk on Jeremy's face was becoming strained. "You know, you really ought to—"

To the right, Miles heard a door shut, and then, "Is there a problem here, darling?"

He didn't think he'd ever be so euphoric to hear Eddie, which was concerning since he'd built up a rather impressive collection of fantasies about that very voice by now. Still. " _Darling_?"

Eddie cleared his throat strongly, crossing his arms over his chest. It was almost ridiculous the way he was puffing himself up, trying to appear bigger and more intimidating, but Miles couldn't find it in himself to laugh when the sight of it made Jeremy take a few steps backward. Miles took in a deep breath, finally able to do so without choking on cheap cologne.

"We were just having a friendly, _private_ chat," Jeremy said sharply. It should have been apparent that he wouldn't back down just yet; he'd always been annoyingly stubborn, and Miles didn't know why he should stop at the first sign of intimidation.

Eddie stepped closer. "Miles?"

Already he was aggressive, as threatening as his appearance (sans the '50s pleasantry) could make him, but Miles knew Eddie would jump _especially_ hard at anything which threatened Waylon, so he didn't feel bad bringing it up. "He just wants to go inside and see Waylon. I told him no."

Eddie's visible hand balled into a fist and the seams of his shirt groaned under the stress, and Jeremy started backing off as quickly as he could manage, hands raised placatingly. "I'll come back around later."

"You'd better hope I don't see it," Eddie warned, and then Jeremy was gone, and Miles and Eddie were alone in the hallway.

"Did he hurt you?" Eddie asked after a moment.

"No," Miles scoffed. "He's annoying, but he wouldn't lay a finger on me... He gets his lackeys to rough people up instead."

Eddie narrowed his eyes and Miles rolled his. "Don't worry, nothing's ever happened to warrant that with _me_. I've just seen it happen."

"I see... Would you allow me to walk you to your car all the same?"

"You don't have to take it that far," Miles said. Blaire wouldn't follow him, but even if he did, Miles could probably take him—only this caused Eddie to droop, because of _course_ he took pleasure in acting all chivalrous. It almost made Miles feel bad. "But I'll walk with you, if you really want to."

Eddie nodded, so Miles led the way toward the elevators. Sometimes they were out of order, but today wasn't one of those days, thankfully. It was never fun to have to take the stairs; they were dark and spooky on the best of days. With a sense of satisfaction, he lifted his right hand to press the arrow with his middle finger, upon which Eddie let out a noise of startled realization.

"What happened to your finger?" he asked. Everything in his posture betrayed the desire to reach out and touch.

"Oh, that? It's a long story." Miles had to hold back his amusement as he held both hands out in front of himself, showing not only the missing index finger on his right hand, but the missing ring finger on his left. It was a little bit like some form of gruesome show and tell. "I've got a matching set."

This didn't seem to amuse Eddie anywhere near as much as it did Miles; he frowned as he looked at them, and Miles finally withdrew, letting them drop to his sides. It wasn't like it was that _bad_. They weren't gorey or anything. At least, not anymore.

"What will you do when you get married?" Eddie asked, stepping onto the elevator as the doors slid open to accept them. "Where would you put the ring?"

"I doubt that's going to happen, but I'm sure if I really wanted to, I'd figure something out."

"Hm." Eddie went silent, not necessarily contemplative—more like the words Miles had given him weren't satisfactory.

"It's not such a big deal, you know. Writing feels kind of weird and typing sucks, but you get used to it," Miles assured him.

"I'd have to quit my job if that ever happened to me."

The realization struck Miles that he didn't actually _know_ what Eddie did for a living. A handful of guesses scattered through his mind in a second, but it was difficult to reconcile his large frame with his almost dainty clothing enough to come up with something that actually seemed logical for him. "What is it you do?" he finally asked, surprising himself with how much he wanted to know the answer.

"I sew."

Miles' brows furrowed. "You so what?"

"I _sew_ ," Eddie repeated, making a motion with his hand like pulling a needle and thread through fabric.

"Huh. Didn't see that one coming."

Eddie raised an eyebrow as if to dare him to say something, but before he could speak, the elevator hit the third floor and Chris stepped in, somehow managing to dwarf even Eddie. He looked at Miles for a long moment, said nothing, and turned to face the mirrored doors.

There was silence. It was utterly still in the elevator, Miles holding his breath and Eddie apparently oblivious, and Chris just standing there. Miles was glad for that, for the lack of speaking, but he was even more glad when they hit the first floor and he could grab Eddie by the arm and forcibly drag him out. The doors slid shut behind them, but there were no footsteps following.

Eddie didn't say anything, which was unnerving, but not so much as Chris. Still, Miles expected Eddie to at least say _something_ , and the empty silence had him feeling rather jumpy on top of the encounter. Maybe he hadn't noticed anything? Except his urgency there at the end had seemed obvious even to himself.

"Come on. Let's go," Miles said, not just to fill the silence but to hurry them ahead in case Chris decided he _did_ want to follow. Only Eddie pulled him to a stop very firmly and lifted one large hand to place it on Miles' forehead, presumably feeling for temperature.

"... Are you alright? Do you need me to take you back upstairs?"

"Oh, I'm fine." _Just encountered the guy I dated for a while, which ended on incredibly bad terms, but no big deal. He_ probably _doesn't want me dead, even if he has the means to do so_.

Eddie didn't look entirely convinced, but he followed Miles out to the parking lot, hovering close at his back all the while. They reached Eddie's car first; Miles wasn't really sure what he was expecting Eddie to drive, but the sky blue Chevy Bel Air they came to a stop in front of fit him well.

"Let me drive you to work," Eddie offered.

Miles laughed, a little worn out as the odd adrenaline from running into Chris began to drain from him. "Oh, no, I work from home."

"Ah... Then let me take you wherever you're going."

"Well, I _am_ going to work," and here Eddie gave him a very confused, very concerned look. "It's not really conventional? I'm a freelance journalist, so I kind of have to go all over for... research and stuff."

Eddie gave him a very stoic look, arms crossed over his chest and _wow_ , Miles really wanted to reach out and wrap his hand around Eddie's bicep just from curiosity alone, but it probably wouldn't actually fit, because those things were _huge_.

"I think I need to get you back upstairs," Eddie decided, and Miles shook his head until he was nearly dizzy.

"No, I'm good, I promise. Being around Chris is just... weird."

"Is he threatening you?" Eddie asked, his arms squeezing together until his biceps stood out even more. At any moment, Miles expected the fabric to rip.

"No! It's nothing like that."

Eddie still didn't look fully convinced, but he gave in eventually. "At least let me walk you to your car."

That didn't seem like it'd be so bad. With a nod, Miles set off down the sidewalk again, following it around toward the back lot with Eddie as a heavy presence behind him. He didn't understand the whole protective urge Eddie suddenly seemed to have, especially when it was directed toward him, but he figured that maybe he didn't have a whole lot in the way of friends, or that he just imprinted upon the first people he met after moving into Mount Massive. It wasn't that Miles minded much, just that it was confusing; Waylon was the kind of person you wanted to protect almost on sight, but Miles wasn't. He'd always been told he came off as a punk-ass who could take care of himself, and he was willing to believe truth in that.

"Well, this is me," he said, coming to a stop at his Jeep. "I guess I'll see you later."

Eddie nodded, hovering close by as Miles climbed inside, and when he was settled, he carefully shut the door for him, waved, and turned away. A moment's thought had Miles rolling the window down, though, and calling after Eddie. "Hey, are you doing anything tomorrow night?"

There was hesitation as Eddie came to a stop, as if he wasn't sure that Miles was calling after _him_ even though there wasn't anybody else he'd be calling to. But then he turned. "Nothing."

"You should come out with me," Miles said, and because he didn't want to get Eddie's hopes up as _well_ as having no illusions about being more important in this than he actually was, he continued. "Waylon won't be there though."

For a moment, Eddie stood still on the sidewalk, his face blank. He was going to turn Miles down, it was obvious. Even _he_ couldn't be expected to deal with the dubious best friend/part-time lover of his own romantic interest.

Then he said, "Alright."

Miles let out a breath, though he hadn't been holding one. "Okay. Good. I'll come get you around seven."

With a nod, Eddie disappeared back around the building, and Miles got his phone out to send one last text to Waylon before leaving—' _Found something to do tomorrow_.'

* * *

"I don't know what I'm supposed to wear," Waylon complained quietly, banging drawers open before closing them again almost as quickly.

Miles didn't respond. Abigail was on the other end of the phone fussing at him for never returning her calls, and even though she was well aware how forgetful he could be, it wasn't any _excuse_ , and what would he have done if it had been the baby? Would he have missed the birth of his own niece, did he really want to be _that_ irresponsible?

"This shirt?" Waylon asked, holding a forest green button-up in front of himself, then switching to a soft-looking cream sweater that wouldn't be seasonally appropriate for another several months. "Or this one?"

"They're all too formal," Miles muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "You're not going somewhere that fancy, right? Don't make her think it's a date, because it's not."

"Are you listening to me?" Abigail asked. She could be so _demanding_ at times, and the bad part was that she stood out in a family _full_ of demanding women. Two mothers and two sisters, all of them strong-willed to the point of downright intimidation when it came to pushing Miles around. If anyone were to look at him and think _his_ attitude was bad, he'd point them straight to his family.

"I'm listening," he said, and tried not to feel embarrassed at how timid his voice could get when he was speaking to her.

"What are you doing right now?" she asked suspiciously.

"I'm helping Waylon with something. I can't just put aside everything in my day to speak to you—I have _responsibilities_ you know."

She scoffed at him. "Oookay, well then. Megan said you're going away for business next week, so I wanted to see how long you intend to be gone."

"A couple days at most."

"You're cutting it awfully close," she said, sounding displeased.

He tried his best not to let out an irritated noise and failed, but at this point she was probably going to fuss at him no matter what he did, so he figured he'd go ahead and give her a reason to. Just to get it out of the way. "You know I'm going to be there to see the baby no matter what, Abby. All this pregnancy shit has got you in such a fucking _tizzy_."

" _Don't_ use that tone with me!" she warned. She sounded exactly like their mothers.

"I'll do whatever I want!"

"I am _trying_ to be patient with you, Miles, because you are the best baby brother anyone could ever ask for—" He interrupted with a snort. She continued on as if she hadn't heard him. "But it's very hard when I have a baby pressing right into my bladder and also I haven't been able to sleep on my back for the past several months and for _another_ thing, I've had to put up with _both_ of our mothers coming around, you know, _both_! Both of them trying to give me the same advice they gave me the first time around but really, they're just whipping me into an anxiety attack, and I'm just fucking _exhausted_ , Miles, okay! Now would you be my sweet, good little brother and listen to me when I complain to you and worry about every possible little detail in your life instead of my own, because I am very stressed out and nobody will stop reassuring me instead of just letting me bitch!"

"I'm listening," he grumbled, deflating. She very well might have been guilt-tripping him, but he could never fault her for that. She was having a _baby_ , for heaven's sake. He was pretty sure that entitled her to yelling sometimes.

"Thank you!" She didn't continue just yet, but let out a very noisy, very staticky sigh. "Anyway... I just want to sleep until the baby gets here. That sounds like the best idea."

"I don't blame you," said Miles, his eyes caught on Waylon, who was digging through the closet again, probably with little luck; he didn't own very many things that were formal but not _too_ formal; primarily, his wardrobe these days consisted of a few pairs of jeans that he really only wore when they went out in public, t-shirts, comfy sweatpants and sleep pants, a single suit that he wore to Abigail's wedding the year before last, and then whatever remained from the days of Lisa, who had seemingly made an effort to get Waylon to dress decently.

Miles, on the other hand, possessed a wealth of clothes that were halfway between formal and casual, and he crawled off of Waylon's bed and headed back to his own room. All the while, Abigail kept up her tirade with his quiet affirmations, _uh huh_ s and _I see_ s, and only when he had been rifling through his closet for a few minutes did she finally trail off.

"So... how are things with you?" she asked.

"Same old, same old," Miles answered automatically. He had pulled out and subsequently replaced a few shirts by now, but soon came to settle on a plain v-neck t-shirt and a short-sleeved plaid button-up to go over top, innocent enough that it didn't assume a date and still a little bit better than any of Waylon's crappy t-shirts. He folded them over his arm, shifting on his feet.

Abigail huffed on the other end, annoyed as always by his habit of revealing nothing. He was scared it was going to send her into another spiral of anger, as she _never_ kept from reminding him how irritating his dislike of phone-based conversation was, and considering that it took a little under two hours' drive for them to see each other, she frequently complained that she didn't know anything that went on in his life. But rather than the route of shouting, she simply asked, "Nothing interesting at all has happened?"

He paused in the hallway, a few feet from Waylon's room. Suddenly he _really_ thought about Waylon going out to dinner with Lisa, and his own plans with Eddie. That would constitute as interesting to her, but he could update her on all of that later, when he had the time and had perhaps recovered a bit from her pregnant rage, so instead he said, "Nope."

There was another sigh on the other end of the phone, and finally, Abigail admitted defeat. "Well... Mamá, Mom, and Megan are worried, you know. You've been calling less and less."

"Sorry," he said. He pushed into Waylon's room, wordlessly pushing the clothes he'd retrieved into his arms before plopping down on the bed. "Things are just a bit busy over here." It was a lie.

"You could send Mamá an email sometime... She worries most of all now that she's out a job. Mom's busy too, and Megan just wants your attention. But you should really talk to Mamá, Miles, _please_."

Miles cupped his chin in his hand, leaned his elbow on his knee. _Ma_ _má_ referred to his other mother, who'd given birth to Abigail and Megan, and the most committed to traditional motherly duties. Despite the fact that Miles had been the only child Mom had given birth to, that didn't stop Mamá from acting like he was the dear, precious fruit of her womb most days. Of course he loved both of them the same amount, but he had to love Mamá in a different way, almost as if he were apologizing for being the only one she couldn't claim genetics to.

"Do you want me to come see her this weekend?" he asked.

"If you had time, I'm sure she'd appreciate it."

"Alright," said Miles, though he'd wait to figure out if he could really swing it. "I have to go now, though."

"I see how it is. You never have time for your big sister anymore..." she grumbled, and her tone was the joking one that he liked, the one that didn't make him feel so bad about being this far away from her, because they were still the same as they always are.

He laughed, and watched fondly as Waylon pulled on the v-neck, getting it stuck on his head before he wrestled it down. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," Abigail replied. "Be good."

"Yeah. Bye."

"Bye."

They hung up, and Miles pursed his lips, checking the time. It was half past five; Waylon would have to leave soon, and then Miles would be alone with his worries that Waylon would change his mind, or that seeing Lisa would make it all the harder to let their joined failure go. He wasn't sure which one would be worse: to be pleased by his refusal to see her, or to be devastated by confirmation that he just wasn't enough.

He hated when he started thinking about things like this, like he was betraying himself because it didn't line up with the things he thought he wanted. But just because the conventional trappings of romance eluded him didn't mean he didn't feel the need to be wanted, desired, appreciated. It didn't mean he couldn't feel jealous, or like he didn't have very much to offer in relation to others. Between Lisa and Eddie, he couldn't really avoid thinking about that sort of thing lately.

"Hey, how do I look?" Waylon asked.

Miles looked up, pinching his bottom lip between his fingers as he gave Waylon a once-over. He looked nice, as he always did when he put effort into his appearance, but even if he didn't, it probably wouldn't have mattered. Waylon was one of those magnetic kinds of people, and nobody could help being drawn into his orbit. Miles saw it happen again and again—with himself, with strangers on the street, and now with Eddie. Probably even with Lisa.

"You look good," he decided after a few moments. "Very nice."

Waylon smiled at him, coming forward to give him a casual pat on the head. "So, are you going to tell me what you're doing tonight so I know whether or not I should put 911 on speed dial?"

"I'm going out with Eddie," said Miles, and he watched Waylon's face very carefully for any trace of anger or jealousy—the exact opposite of what he wanted to see. But there was nothing like that there. Just curiosity and surprise.

"Huh. Where are you going?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders. "A bar, I guess. I didn't really ask what he wanted to do." He checked the time on his phone again, used to being the one who had to herd Waylon around, and sighed. "You should probably get going."

The conviction Waylon had held for the past two days visibly wavered, his expression crumpling into unsurety. _What if it's all wrong_ , his face said. _What if we don't get along anymore_? Then it hardened again, and he nodded, giving Miles a peck on the top of his head. "Okay. Have a good time tonight, and call me if you're going to stay out late."

"Sure." He wouldn't hear it if Miles called; this was something he knew well, because if Waylon didn't come home and code for the rest of the night, he'd surely be in a bad enough mood to sleep, and both of those things meant the phone would be the last thing on his mind. In a way, that was comforting for Miles. At least it meant he could sneak in at the end of everything without being asked pesky questions.

The emptiness of the apartment when the front door finally shut was odd, but somewhat comforting. This meant Waylon wouldn't be hanging over his shoulder as he waited for his own deadline to come. And it wasn't a _date_ , Miles reminded himself as he stood, not least of all because he doubted Eddie was interested in him that way.

He took his time getting ready, careful not to think too much about the coming night as he scrubbed off in the shower and got dressed in the same jeans and v-neck t-shirt he'd wear if he were going out for drinks with Waylon. Really it was his hair that took the most time, and Waylon always fussed at him for this, because Waylon didn't have to care about things—he was just _naturally_ appealing, where Miles had to work at any kind of artful tousle. In the end, it took up enough time that he only had half an hour to kill, idly responding to emails on his phone while checking carefully for the exact moment the clock flipped over to 6:59.

It didn't have the chance to. There was a knock on the door at 6:55, and Miles felt a weird jangle of nerves as he opened it to find Eddie, dressed in his usual trouser, button-up, and waistcoat ensemble. Miles wondered if he owned anything else.

"You just couldn't wait to see me, huh?" he asked, though he was sure it was more likely that Eddie wanted a glimpse of Waylon before they headed out.

Eddie smiled at him, small and polite, and that more than anything made Miles regret his invitation. In the first place, he probably only agreed to it because he saw Miles as the gatekeeper to Waylon. The night ahead may as well have been a test run for him, so that Miles could decide if he was willing to hand Waylon off, which sounded like a rude concept when he put it that way in his head. But Miles didn't have many doubts that Waylon was at least a little interested in Eddie. He'd completely trash the notion otherwise.

Miles was trying to become okay with it, but somehow the more he thought about it, the less okay he really was. He'd gotten used to considering Waylon _his_ , except that maybe all along it had been the other way around, because Miles knew he'd still be around for Waylon if this nebulous future relationship went bad. The worst part was that he couldn't be sure if this meant he was really in _love_ with Waylon, or if he was just clinging to what he knew.

As they made their way downstairs and set off in Miles' Jeep, his nerves just got worse. Eddie was quiet in the passenger seat, and it made him feel sure that he didn't much care for Miles. He wished this didn't bother him, but by the time they arrived at their destination, Miles was feeling a little sick to his stomach from his own thoughts. On top of that, he hadn't really realized where he was driving them to, and now that they were here, he wondered if it was really the right decision. Eddie was eying the building with some curious regard, which dissipated rather quickly when he saw the kind of clientele that lingered around in the parking lot. Some of them had no sense of subtlety at all, but that wasn't for Miles to judge, and he turned to Eddie.

"This isn't uncomfortable for you, is it?"

"It's not what I was expecting," Eddie said carefully.

"Are you... do you prefer to keep this kind of thing secret? Because we can go somewhere else."

"I don't mind."

Miles took him at his word, but as they made their way into the bar with all its flashing lights and flamboyantly-dressed men, it became more and more obvious that Eddie was out of his element. At least Miles took pity on him, leaving him in a booth before making his way to the rather uncrowded bar, whereupon he realized he didn't really know what Eddie liked to drink, or if he even liked drinking at all.

In the end he came back with two shots of whiskey, a shot each of vodka and rum, a beer, and a mojito. He lined them up on the table, only setting the mojito aside for himself, then climbed into the booth across from Eddie.

"I didn't know what you liked to drink," he said in explanation for the ostentatious display of alcohol. The strobe lights out on the dance floor caught irritatingly in his eye every so often, but the lighting over here was mostly dim, making it even harder to figure out what Eddie was thinking. But the sooner he got drunk, the sooner he'd stop caring so much about this and everything that had been bothering him, so he took a long sip of his mojito.

"Whiskey is fine," said Eddie. He picked up one of the shot glasses and tossed it back, swallowing it down with hardly even a wince.

Miles nodded and spent a few minutes sipping awkwardly at his drink, watching the meager crowd of people on the dance floor. He had only been here a few times since he and Waylon started fooling around, but that was all back in the beginning, before they gained a measure of seriousness to their non-relationship. These days they spent a lot of time in the apartment rather than going out, and he couldn't remember the last time he was here, but it was much the same as it always was, the same crowd, same grating music. At least the drinks were just as strong as ever, too.

"Why did you invite me out?" Eddie asked, breaking the silence.

Miles shrugged his shoulders. They already felt looser. "Waylon had other plans. I figured it was about time I saw what you're all about."

"What does that mean?"

"I mean you're interested in him, aren't you?" Miles asked. He threw an arm over the back of the booth, snatching up the rum shot and pouring it into his mouth with a shudder.

"Yes, but he's made it fairly clear he isn't interested in me."

Miles rolled his eyes. "Listen, I'm not the kind of guy who thinks anybody should go after someone who clearly says they're not interested but... he's only been saying all that for my sake."

And there it was, out in the open; Miles wasn't a morose drunk of any sort, but he became very honest after a certain point, and apparently he'd just passed it. He felt like a mess already.

"What?" Eddie asked. He narrowed his eyes, leaning closer.

"Waylon likes nice people, you know."

Eddie seemed confused by this, and Miles took the time to drain the last of his drink, placing it back on the table a little harder than necessary. He had always had kind of a crappy tolerance for stronger alcohol—probably the reason he stuck mainly to beer—and regretted bringing Eddie here even more for the fact that he was about to be exposed to this.

"I don't follow," said Eddie, after a long beat had passed in which Miles hadn't elaborated.

"You know, people who you can grow old with. He wants to be in long-term relationships with people he can stay madly in love with."

"Why can't he have that with you?"

"Because... I don't know. It's hard to explain." He'd never been in love with anyone, honestly—not even Waylon, really. But he felt something for him that he'd never felt for anyone else, which made this all the harder. "He's spent too much time with me now to be able to back out easy, so I have to convince him that you're the better choice."

Eddie rubbed a hand over his temples. "I don't see what this has to do with me."

"You're nice. You like him, and he likes you, but he's reluctant to let you know because he thinks it'd upset me. So I have to step out of the way so he can have a chance at this."

"You sound ridiculous," Eddie scoffed.

Miles groaned. This wasn't the reaction he wanted; he _wanted_ Eddie to nod along and see where Miles was coming from, to agree to take his place. He didn't expect rationale from him, thought he'd be too enraptured with Waylon to really care.

"Listen. I would gladly spend the rest of my life with Waylon, but for him, it'd be stagnation. I'm just something comfortable until someone who can give him the things he _really_ wants comes along." He took the vodka and drank it as well, hoping that this mass mixing of liquor in his stomach wouldn't end up making him pay in the morning. Already he felt a bit lightheaded.

"I'm not going to take him from you," said Eddie. His tone and his eyes were too serious for this conversation—it was all too dramatic.

"You wouldn't be _taking_ him from me. It's all his decision in the end, anyway." But still he felt sure that they wouldn't last much longer, at least not in this way. Not when Waylon saw all the things he could have if only Miles weren't in the way.

"Then are you saying you'd give him up that easily?"

" _No_ ," Miles said, frustrated. "Of course I don't want to give him up."

"You won't fight for him?"

"I'd fight for him in any other circumstance, but what's the point in fighting when I know it'd be better for him to find someone else?"

"I can't let you do that."

Miles made a frustrated noise and pushed himself out of the booth. He wandered away, needing a moment's relief, but ended up at the bar getting himself another shot of rum, the burn of it fuzzy through his intoxication. When he was done, he headed back to the booth, reaching in to grab at Eddie.

"Come on, we should dance. I didn't bring you here just to tell you to go after Waylon." Nevermind that he basically had; he actually managed to sound quite convincing.

"I don't think I'd do well with this kind of dancing," said Eddie, but Miles tugged at him again.

"Just one song. Come on."

With a heavy dose of reluctance that was visible in every line of his body, Eddie slid out of the booth and let Miles hold on to him as he led the way toward the dance floor. The truth was that Miles didn't really dance either, but he could get drunk enough to believe that grinding on someone was akin to dancing, like almost every other person on the floor.

So they danced, if the definition of 'dancing' was Eddie standing still, not touching while Miles wrapped his arms around his shoulders and rubbed against him to the beat of the song playing. It was awkward, but Miles was luckily quite drunk enough that it didn't bother him; he suspected that Eddie felt very differently, and remembered he'd only had a single shot to compare to everything Miles had already had.

When the song ended, Miles let go, figuring he'd tortured him enough. Eddie had been warm and his shoulders had felt strong under Miles' hands—the _whole_ of him had felt strong, really, but it was too fleeting a press for Miles to really get a feel for him. He'd smelled good, too. It was kind of hard to leave him behind.

They stood looking at each other for what felt like far too long before Eddie muttered something about getting water and pulled away toward the bar.

Miles, for his part, wiped a hand over his face as he sat back in the booth. He checked his phone. There was a text from Waylon letting Miles know that he was home and that things had gone fine, which he didn't respond to, and a few emails, which he didn't check. Instead he watched Eddie making his way back only to be accosted by a red-headed twink, and laughed to himself when Eddie awkwardly but sincerely rejected him. It was clear that he had little experience in these areas.

"Here you are," Eddie said as he took a seat beside Miles, close enough to radiate heat against him once again.

Miles stayed quiet, trying not to question this new arrangement. He accepted the water that Eddie handed to him, instead, sipping at it slowly until it was gone, Eddie equally silent beside him and doing the same.

"Have you sobered up any?" Eddie asked when he placed the bottle down.

"A little."

"Enough to regain some common sense?"

"Firstly," Miles said, raising his left index finger. "I take offense at that. Secondly, you just don't know the situation like I do."

"I know how he looks at you."

"Yeah? How's that?"

Eddie pursed his lips, looking irritated about this question. "He loves you."

It wasn't like Miles thought love came easily to Waylon, but it came easier to him than it did to Miles. There would always be another chance for Waylon to love somebody, but Miles just couldn't _think_ like that, and most of the time it didn't bother him, except when he thought about Waylon in anybody else's arms, and then there was a knot squeezing tight around his heart, strangling it, because it was supposed to be _Miles_ , but he knew it couldn't be him. Not really, not in the end.

"Do you not want to be with him anymore?" asked Eddie.

"I want to be with him."

"Do you not love him?"

"Nobody _doesn't_ love Waylon," Miles scoffed. "It's not that easy."

"You aren't such a bad fellow either."

"What?" he asked incredulously.

Eddie smiled at him. "You think about others a lot, don't you? That's an admirable trait."

Uncomfortable, Miles looked away, out on the dance floor. "I just want him to be happy," he said. It felt weird talking to Eddie about this, considering he knew so little of their situation, and for the first time Miles felt a clarity, wondering why the _hell_ he was doing this, why he was _trying_ to ruin this for himself when it made him so happy. He cursed his sober self for such stupid decisions, or maybe just for thinking too much, and scooted closer to Eddie.

"I think about you and him a lot, you know," he said. It was easier to change the subject.

"How so?"

Miles shrugged his shoulders. "You just look like you'd fit well together."

"You seem very undisturbed by the fact that I have designs on him."

"What can I say, I'm a sucker for a handsome man," Miles said with a wink.

Eddie didn't rise to this playfulness. "You can't really be alright with it."

"I'm not. And I'm not interested in discussing it anymore, really."

For a few seconds, Eddie quieted. It was the worst kind of atmosphere to have a serious discussion like this—flashing lights and guys grinding on each other and, in a far corner, probably someone getting blown. It wasn't the first thing Miles regretted that night.

"You want to know more about him, don't you?" he asked, feeling somehow defeated, by himself and by Eddie and by the world. Why couldn't things ever just be clean-cut? Why couldn't he be okay with being alone, why was he so _weird_ all the time about these things? He was worthy. He might not have known what he was doing when it came down to relationships, and 'love' might have been a nebulous concept to him, but he was still worthy.

Eddie cleared his throat. "If he wants me to know more about him, he'll show me in time."

That made Miles smile, and it felt condescending on his lips as he leaned closer to Eddie, right into the warm atmosphere of him. He had no idea what he was doing; it wasn't about convincing Eddie anymore, but about... something different. About curiosity. The sudden, wild thought that maybe it didn't have to be _just_ Miles and Waylon, or _just_ Eddie and Waylon, entered his mind. They weren't really in a solid relationship anyway, were they? "I could show you something about him that'd make you a little more interested."

"What?" Eddie asked, and he looked genuinely curious as Miles got even closer into his space.

"I can kiss you the way he'd kiss you," Miles breathed, and then he was leaning forward to meet Eddie halfway. He'd thought he would hesitate, but the press of his lips was firm against the imitation Miles performed of a kiss from Waylon—too easily taken under by someone with more aggression but not necessarily submissive, easily distracted from response and feigning the way his mouth slackened with pleasure when Eddie grabbed at his waist. And there was no lack of want in Eddie, even knowing that it was only Miles, a poor replacement for Waylon. It was just that he was gentle, like he didn't want to spook Miles, but he wanted so _badly_.

He let Eddie go on like that for a minute, his tongue careful against Miles'. Part of him wondered how Waylon could ever prefer this over his own kisses, but that was a place he didn't want to get to right now, so he switched gears into the kisses Waylon gave during sex, long and slow, more deep in involvement as he pressed his lips even more urgently against Eddie's.

Eddie savored them, at least until it became clear that Miles wasn't going to pull away, that this was a kiss meant to last, and it always did when it came from Waylon, when Miles had a leg pressed between his thighs and they were rutting together in bed, half-dressed and frantic. He pulled Miles in closer, dragged him onto his lap with hard, clutching hands suddenly, and Miles still didn't break away, breathing hard as he pressed his tongue to Eddie's, arms curling around his shoulders.

Part of him was so used to working on instinct that it felt wrong to keep himself from moving against Eddie's leg, but he _did_ actually have some restraint. And anyway Eddie had a vice grip on his hips, painful in the best way, same as the way he was physically pushing Miles' mouth open and taking, the force of his kisses enough to make Miles lean back.

When they parted, they were both breathing hard, right in each other's space with Eddie's hands still digging into Miles' waist.

"Just don't forget," Miles muttered, finding it hard to pull away from Eddie's mouth.

"Don't forget what?"

"Don't forget..." He trailed off, eyes so fixated on Eddie's bottom lip that he had to lean closer and bite at it, then kiss it again. "He was mine first."

That startled Eddie, his eyes going wide, and then he toppled Miles into the booth and stood up, leaping away with an excuse of having to use the restroom. Miles watched him go, confused, and continued to stare with glassy eyes at the doorway he'd disappeared through for a minute or so before getting his phone out as a distraction.

' _I kissed Eddie_ ,' was the message he eventually sent to Waylon.

The response was immediate. ' _Oh. Did you enjoy it?_ '

Miles took a moment to think about this; Waylon could either be sarcastic, angry, or genuinely curious, and Miles would never know unless he was actually _speaking_ to Waylon, hearing his voice, and so instead of replying to the text, he called him instead.

"Miles," Waylon answered, sounding exasperated, but not angry. This was a good sign, at least. "You know you could have just texted me back."

"Yeah, but... I need to hear your voice to make sure you're not angry with me."

"I'm not angry," Waylon said, laughing. "Honestly I half expected to get a text from you saying you slept with him. This isn't as bad."

"I don't think he'd go for that."

"Why's that?"

"He's curious about me, but he's not _that_ curious..."

"Yet." There was a sound like fabric rubbing together; Waylon must have been in bed, and suddenly Miles was ready to come home and climb in with him. "I find it funny that you want me to get together with him so badly, but there you are kissing him."

"I'm just testing the waters for you," Miles said cheerfully. There was still no sign of Eddie; Miles wondered if he was having a mini breakdown in the bathroom about the fact that he'd just made out with Miles when he had been after Waylon instead. He seemed like the kind of guy who would get upset about breaking a commitment he wasn't even bound to. "You should kiss him. You'd like it. He was all gentle with me until I made him wild for it. I told him I'd kiss him like you kiss me."

" _Miles_ ," Waylon breathed out. Not exasperation. Arousal, then.

"He held me so tight, I bet I have bruises."

"Miles, come home," Waylon said softly, his voice not sounding tired at all, and it made Miles' throat go dry just a little. It wasn't arousal, either. It was want, or maybe need. Or maybe the realization of what Miles was doing—that some part of him was serious about getting Waylon and Eddie together.

"I think we're about to leave. I'll be there soon," he said. Best to face the music.

They hung up and Miles went back to staring at the hallway that contained the bathrooms. He was starting to wonder if Eddie had climbed out of the window to escape when he reappeared, running a hand over his hair and looking rather wary as he approached the table.

Some part of Miles felt bad for him, and even more than that, _awkward_ about their encounter. He'd had enough time to burn off some of the alcohol, but not nearly enough that he'd be able to drive. He acknowledged this even as he suggested they go on their way, Eddie chivalrous as ever in volunteering himself to take care of getting them back home.

Then they were in the car, Eddie looking awkward in the driver's seat, silence engulfing them. That was the way it was for twenty minutes, all the way up from the parking lot to the elevator until they'd come to a stop in front of the door to Miles and Waylon's apartment. Miles hesitated. Either he apologized here and now, awkward as it would surely be, and hope that Eddie never said anything about it to Waylon, or he continued to push another day.

In the end, he didn't get to make that decision. The door opened, Waylon standing there with his hair looking rather flat on one side, his eyes drooping with sleepiness.

"Oh... hi, Eddie," he said, already sounding apologetic. "Thanks for bringing him home."

"Of course," said Eddie. Miles realized he'd been leaning into his side and forced himself to stand up straighter, hovering awkwardly in the doorway as if this wasn't his apartment, _his_ place to inhabit. All of it had been his first, from Waylon to the bookshelf just inside, laden with _his_ books, _his_ things. All of this was his, and he wanted to give it away. He guessed his mother had always told him he'd grow up to be a fool.

"Would you like to come inside?" asked Waylon politely.

"Thank you... I should probably go, though."

"... Bye," Miles said. "Thanks for going with me."

"Of course." Eddie seemed polite, cordial, but there was an undercurrent of discomfort in the way he stepped away. Miles had ruined it. Of course he had. "See you around."

Waylon ushered Miles inside after that, stopping him in the kitchen to get him to drink a glass of water before leading him to his bedroom. The sheets were rumpled, as if Waylon had already been laying among them, and he helped Miles out of his jeans before pushing him toward bed.

They huddled together almost immediately, Miles curling into Waylon's side tiredly. "How did your date with Lisa go?"

"Tell me why you went out with Eddie, first."

Miles sighed, rolling his shoulders back against the tightness they'd settled into over the past few hours. "Because he said yes?"

"Miles..."

"I don't know... You acted like it'd be weird if I didn't have plans when you did, so I went for the first person I saw, and it just so happened to be him."

"Of course. It _just so happened_. No ulterior motives at all, I'm sure."

"I'd never."

"Why'd you kiss him, then? Why'd you tell him you'd kiss him the way I kiss you?"

Miles bit his lip; he should have known better than to assume that Waylon wouldn't be angry about this, for more reasons than one. Even though it was firmly established that they weren't dating, Waylon thought about them as being _together_ , and though Miles had a different mindset, it was hard not to see the disappointment in his eyes. He must have expected better, or something like that. Waylon always _did_ expect more of people than he should have. He always ended up disappointed.

"Why not? You'll do it sooner or later, won't you?" It came out more bitterly than he wanted it to, but there was no taking it back once Waylon's face shut down. And still he couldn't stop himself, all too anxious to fuck it up more. "I just wanted to get there first."

"Why are you saying this?" Waylon asked quietly, pushing his face harder against Miles' neck. "Why are you trying to push me away? I don't want to leave you. I know you think you're just a stand-in for something better, but you're _not_."

Miles didn't say anything. He felt blank and hollowed out inside, and not even Waylon could fill him.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

"Tell me why you keep trying to push me on him."

Miles grumbled, turning his face away in a sad attempt at escaping Waylon's gaze. "You know why."

"And I know it's the stupidest reason in the world. You really think I could just _drop_ you like it's nothing? Or that I spent the last year with you looking around for someone who can fulfill every criteria on a list of things that don't even guarantee compatibility? He's nice, but you're a giant idiot if you believe I'm going to give you up just to try it with him."

Sighing, Miles kicked at Waylon's foot under the sheets. It was easy to pretend he was over this. At least it might get Waylon off his back for a little while. "You're embarrassing."

"You can't really think I'd just leave you behind," Waylon continued softly, sounding so sincere, and Miles frowned a little.

"It'd make me feel better if you did."

Waylon's eyebrows pulled together, the dreaded look of sympathy on his face making Miles want to crawl out of bed and get away from him. He hated it. It made him sick to his stomach. "I'm sorry. I can't do it."

"Yeah, well... I wouldn't expect anything less from you."

Silence settled around them, the only sound an erratic thump from upstairs, and someone talking far enough away that they were only a soft hum. Waylon's hand rubbed high up between Miles' shoulder blades, almost uncomfortably warm from the sheets, and Miles closed his eyes, shifting closer to him. He hated himself in this moment, for trying to push himself away, for making Eddie think less of him, and most of all for hurting Waylon. But he found it too hard to stay away from him.

"Are you going to stop trying to make me break up with you now?" Waylon asked.

"We're not dating."

"No... but we kind of are."

It was easier to let the fight go. Maybe deep down inside, Waylon knew they'd come back to it another day. But for now, he could pretend. "Fine... But only if you pay for pizza tomorrow night. And don't skimp—I want breadsticks too."

"I can do that," Waylon promised, pressing his smile into Miles' neck, his eyelashes fluttering against the skin there. It was soft and gentle, too soft and gentle for someone as hard as Miles. "I can definitely do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tumblr](http://bunansa.tumblr.com)!


End file.
